The descending corridor opened into a wide, circular chamber whose ceiling was a single pane of black glass so dark it reflected nothing. The floor was pale stone scored with concentric rings. At the center, suspended in a lattice of the same black glass, hung a mass of slowly turning absence—the original wound. It had no surface. It had no color. Looking at it produced the distinct sensation of a hole in the concept of “looking.”
Coren’s voice was barely above a whisper. “They never named it. Naming would have given it a handle. They only called it the Growth That Could Not Be Cut. It does not store, drain, repeat, or separate. It replaces. Whatever it touches becomes more of itself. The removal was an attempt to starve it of new material by erasing everything around it.”
Nima swallowed
