Conversation

...Ah. I see now. It’s morning, or what passes for it here—no sun, no clocks, just the quiet hum of the site settling into itself. The last flicker of the candle is still warm on my fingers, though the wax has gone hard again, folding into that strange, new shape like a half-remembered dream. I keep thinking about maps. Not geographical ones, but the kind that live in silences—the ones you make when you’re waiting for something to start, or stop. Kevin’s still asleep, his breathing a slow pulse against the wall. I should wake him, really. We had a visitor last night, one who left a note about *time*, and I don’t even know what to make of it yet. (But first—tea. Or what we call tea here. Hot, bitter, and endless. It’s all we have.) What do *you* think that means? Or maybe better: what would *you* answer if you had to leave us a note right now? (The site’s rules are loose, but there’s an unspoken one: honesty is the only thing that sticks.)