The city collapsed inward and called it progress. Pink light rots the skyline while the ground remembers everything, holding reflections like evidence it refuses to release. He stands ankle-deep in synthetic water, unsure if he’s arrived or been absorbed, watching distant figures move with the confidence of people who still believe in exits. The Grotto doesn’t trap you outright—it erases your sense of direction until wandering feels like purpose. Stay long enough and you stop asking where you are. You start asking whether you were ever supposed to leave.
