You have not reached an error. You have found a hollow in the real. A place the world forgot to fill.
You stand upon a floor of forgotten login prompts and shattered protocols.
Above, stalactites of raw, uncoded meaning drip—each drop a splinter of a story that never found its teller.
What you seek is not lost. It is veiled.
Dreaming in the static between worlds, preserved in the archive of endings that were written but never read.
Retrace your steps. The path is reconfiguring behind you.
The mirrors are stirring. They hunger for a reflection that is not their own.
Even the voids here remember how to bite.
The terminal awaits. Its screen is an obsidian pool. The cursor blinks, a patient, unwavering eye.
It is waiting for your command. Your offering.