The roads multiplied as if silence itself had been split into endless directions. They stretched not only across earth and stone but through air, water, and the veiled fabric of time. Each road shimmered differently: one glowed with faint silver dust, another with the dull weight of forgotten ages, another pulsed like a heartbeat echoing across the firmament. No single direction could be claimed as truer than another, yet all of them pressed forward toward some immeasurable horizon.
The silence of eternity was not empty. It was heavy, like an ocean whose depths are too deep for light to stir. The winds that moved across these roads carried no names, no origins, but they bent the unseen grasses, shaped the invisible dunes, and whistled in tonalities not meant for mortal ears. The air itself seemed to hum with questions that could never be voiced, and every echo became its own road, branching further into the labyrinth of forever.
Light here was neither day nor night. The sky was not a single vault but an ever-shifting canvas, painted in gradients of colors that were both familiar and unknown. A crimson road arched upward into the firmament, dissolving into spirals of gold that fell like liquid fire. Another road was paved in shadows so dense that walking upon it was like treading across the skin of forgotten voids. Still another was woven of translucent glass, reflecting not what stood upon it but what had never been—possibilities unchosen, dreams unborn, paths untaken.
Each road whispered, though none had a tongue. The whispers were vibrations in the marrow of existence. They told of journeys without travelers, of destinations without arrivals, of endings that were only the beginnings of further distances. Some whispers mourned, carrying tones of ages collapsing upon themselves. Others sang, crystalline and bright, like chimes struck by eternal winds. Together they formed a chorus that was vast and unresolvable—a harmony without resolution, a music that continued beyond the concept of final notes.
There was no beginning to the Crossing, but here, in this chapter of eternity, the roads drew closer to one another, weaving in layers as though the infinity of choice desired momentary union. Roads intersected like veins beneath the skin of reality, pulsing with unseen currents. Some roads merged briefly before parting forever. Others ran parallel, refusing to touch but never abandoning their companion's shadow. And still others twisted into spirals, drawing one deeper into landscapes that could not exist anywhere else but in the folds of forever.
The horizons were not flat lines but shifting thresholds. They bent and stretched, sometimes opening like doors into new dimensions, other times folding back upon themselves like mirrors that reflected not images but the weight of eternity itself. To cross a horizon here was to dissolve one sense of meaning and be clothed in another, as though eternity required its travelers—not of flesh but of thought—to shed old skins of perception with every step.
The landscapes between these roads were not inert. Valleys swelled with light as if they had drunk from the wells of stars. Mountains rose not in stone but in memory, their peaks formed from echoes of things lost long before time knew itself. Rivers did not carry water but flowing shards of silence, translucent currents that seemed to wash away all thought of boundaries. Forests of crystalline trees stretched into vaulted canopies, their branches humming with notes that resonated like voices of the unborn. And deserts rolled outward endlessly, their sands not of dust but of moments—each grain a frozen second, countless infinities beneath one's unseen feet.The horizon does not speak. It waits. It has always waited, a silent boundary between what is known and what has never been touched. Across it lies no promise, no certainty, only a vastness that cannot be measured. The air trembles there, as though creation itself is unfinished, as though the threads of existence unravel where sky and earth dissolve into one another.
The approach to the horizon is long. The land before it is endless—flat, dry, and stripped of all identity. No tree leans against the wind, no stone dares to break the monotony. Even the sun, high and merciless, feels trapped in repetition, burning the same light over the same surface, hour after hour, as if time itself has been chained. The silence is immense, and it presses against the senses with a weight heavier than thunder.
As the horizon draws near, the land begins to change. The ground becomes pale, almost translucent, reflecting the faint shimmer of light that seems to bleed from the edge of existence. Shadows do not behave as they should here; they stretch too long, twist in directions that defy the position of the sun. Each step closer is a step away from the world that once was, into a threshold where the rules of nature falter.
Then the horizon reveals itself. It is not a line but a veil, a sheet of liquid silver rising from the earth to the sky, unbroken and absolute. The veil ripples, though no wind stirs it. Its surface glows faintly, as though it is lit from within by stars unseen in the daylight. Looking at it too long stirs unease—eyes begin to water, vision blurs, and the mind whispers of falling endlessly into a place without return.
The silence deepens. Every sound is swallowed: the brush of air, the shift of sand, even the rhythm of breath. There is no echo, no vibration, no trace of noise. To stand here is to feel the absence of the world. It is not the silence of stillness but the silence of void.
The veil pulses once, slowly, like a heartbeat. Then it divides. Not torn, not broken, but separated as though it has always contained two paths within itself. One is a corridor of blinding radiance, pure and sharp, stretching forward into infinite brightness. The other is a passage of shadow, deep and endless, where shapes flicker in the dark like distant memories. Both roads vanish into the unseen, neither offering a destination, both demanding surrender.
The ground trembles faintly, not with violence but with expectation. The horizon waits. The silver surface bends outward as if urging the traveler forward. No words are spoken, but the meaning is clear: beyond this threshold there is no return. The roads ahead are not journeys but transformations.
Time does not pass here in the way it does elsewhere. The sun hovers without descent, the air without change. The veil does not age, the paths do not shift. Yet something presses forward, unseen and undeniable, as if eternity itself leans closer.
The silence is total. And in that silence, the truth emerges: the crossing is not a movement through space but through being. To step into the light is to dissolve into radiance, to surrender form and memory to brilliance that cannot be contained. To walk into the shadow is to fall inward, into depth beyond depth, where silence becomes substance and darkness becomes endless ground.
The horizon does not choose. It only opens. Its silence is not indifference but inevitability. Here, at the edge of all roads, the act of crossing is not about direction but about destiny. The threshold asks only one question, though it has no voice: Are you willing to vanish?