They called it the Portal to Possibility, once.
Forged not by hands, but by intention—
a spiral of living stone and star-fire birthed from the breath of a world that remembered how to dream. The Remnant arched skyward for eons,
a bridge between realms, a threshold where gods whispered and wanderers vanished,
not in fear, but in wonder.
But time does not bow, not even to light. And so it began to sink.
Not shattered by war or violence but softened by stillness. The same earth that raised it up now pulls it home, moss curling over its edges, tidewater swallowing its bones.
No one remembers how to use it. The chants are gone. The keys are unspoken. The runes now arcane images no one remembers.
But sometimes—
just as the sun slips behind the sea, when the wind stirs the reeds like it’s speaking forgotten names, the arch glows.
A last breath.
A memory trying to return.
And those who still walk that sacred shoreline say when it glimmers the stars fall a little slower there, as if the sky itself mourns what’s fading.
As if the Remnant was dying…
waiting.
For one who remembers.
.
~ Morgan C. Morgan
Writer of light, shadow, and the stories between.
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~
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