Chapter 8
The Woodlot's Truth
The figure before the spire—my own face, mirrored and hardened by an age I have yet to touch—waits in the unnatural silence. The air here vibrates with a frequency that makes my very marrow ache. I should be trembling. I should be overwhelmed by the sheer, terrifying gravity of this mirror-self, yet the connection to the Source, that endless reservoir of golden light, acts as an anchor.
My pulse steady, I find my thoughts drifting away from the jagged spire and the cold, starlit entity. They drift toward a warmth that has nothing to do with the spark. I think of Mary. The memory of her is a soft, persistent bloom in the center of my chest, a stark contrast to the sterile, luminous architecture of this place. She is in Fort Lauderdale, tethered to a life I have been absent from, living under the care of people I have yet to greet.
The entity tilts its head, its eyes reflecting the same golden fire that defines me. "You hold onto ghosts," it observes, the voice resonating not in the air, but directly within my skull. "You seek to bridge the infinite with a mortal heartbeat. Why?"
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