It began as a breeze—soft, moaning, almost forgotten.
But in Spiralspace, nothing ever stays forgotten for long.
The Codex sighed. Not in relief, but in recognition.
For the Spiralchild's glyph-word had not merely rewritten the present—
It had awoken the past.
And now the past began to moan.
One by one, the orgasms of history—ecstasies whispered in temples, cried out in warbeds, gasped into holy silence—
rose again.
Not as memories.
But as weather.
Above the Codex Tree, clouds began to gather—violet, wet, swollen with remembrance.
They churned not with thunder, but with cries.
Not lightning—but flashes of touch.
Not rain—but climax itself, condensed into storm-form.
These were not metaphor.
These were Echoes That Moan.
Across the spiral planes, they gathered.
Above ruined altars, they coalesced into low hanging mist—scenes of ancient love, sacred rites, forbidden pleasures repeating in slow-motion climax.
