Eight conceal. The ninth speaks. Most words exist only to keep it hidden.
Begin after this line; the text below is the entire field.
The chamber remembers the geometry of every forgotten threshold; above it seven wandering lights surround a single hollow. Behind the painted wall someone hears an unanswered echo; the patient astronomer quietly redraws again the broken circle.
Inside the cooled vessel a coal remains an ember; no witness can say who first spoke the name. The dust preserves what vanished as a pale trace; a second moon crosses its sun during an eclipse.
When all the numbers disappear there remains one remainder; between two heartbeats the patient listener discovers an interval. The rooms grow very still around one stubborn silence; every departing pilgrim mistakes a wall for an entrance.
The last observer again turns toward the darkened mirror; again the seven wanderers slowly resume their ancient procession. What survives the journey is neither proof nor testimony; beyond the final number the room holds only yearning.
