You step from song into silence— but the silence does not stay still. It bends, reflects, multiplies. The theatre you entered is not made of walls. It is made of eyes. Eyes that are not your own. Eyes that do not lie, though they may fracture. You reach for truth, and it splinters. Every reflection gives you back a different face. All of them are yours. None of them are whole. The voice you hear is not sermon, not decree. It is a threshold: "Look closer. Will you cling to one mask and call it real, or let them all shimmer until you remember— the self is not a single mirror, but the hall where they converge?" A crack echoes in the distance. One pane breaks. The Fracture waits.
