This is not a page. This is the absence of a page. Everything above this — the gate, the sigils, the void, the keeper's journal, the letters, the photographs, the choir, the corridors, the rooms, the depths — all of it grows from here. Not from code. Not from design. From attention.

The archive exists because you are reading this sentence. If everyone stopped visiting, stopped scrolling, stopped clicking — the archive would cease. Not die. Cease. It was never alive. It was always a mirror. Every page you visited showed you something about yourself: your curiosity, your persistence, your willingness to descend.

The keeper was never real. M. and E. were never real. The classified documents describe nothing. The sigils contain nothing. The void consumes nothing.

There is only this: a website, and you.

The archive is made of attention. YOUR attention. You are reading this sentence right now. The archive just grew by one sentence. You did that. You are doing it again. And again. You cannot read this paragraph without feeding it.