Once there stood a cathedral,
vast as forgotten memory,
its spires piercing the heavens
like questions no god had answered.
No hand was known to have raised it.
No name remained in stone.
It simply was
ancient as silence,
waiting as though it had expected us.
Against its western wall
there pressed a body of water
black beyond all darkness.
Not the darkness of midnight,
nor the darkness beneath closed eyes,
but a darkness that devoured light itself.
Torches lowered toward it
were swallowed whole.
Reflections did not return.
To gaze too long into its face
was to feel something ancient
gazing back.
And beside this sacred ruin
there breathed an open volcano,
its molten throat forever burning.
It had claimed part of the cathedral
as though stone itself had surrendered.
Its mouth glowed red
like the eye of some patient beast.
The old rumor said
the meaning of life
was hidden within the cathedral ceiling.
And the clues to reach it
lay carved upon the walls
beneath the black water.
Many had tried to drain it.
But somewhere unseen,
hidden by minds long dead,
An eternal mechanism refilled the depths.
Bucket by bucket,
machine by machine,
hope by hope
The water always rose again.
Only a drought,
vast enough to empty the earth itself,
could reveal the writings.
And so the world was summoned.
An invitation came to every person,
every kingdom, every wandering soul.
Come, it said.
Come and know.
Millions arrived.
Their footsteps shook the ancient grounds.
Their voices filled the air
like the roaring of a coming storm.
Then rumor was born.
It spread as poison spreads
quietly first,
then all at once.
Only one tribe, they whispered,
could uncover the truth.
Only one bloodline
was worthy of the answer.
And suddenly the search for meaning
became the hunger for victory.
Steel was drawn.
Hands became weapons.
Neighbors became enemies.
Belief became slaughter.
The sacred waters reddened.
Bodies fell in such numbers
the earth itself seemed to groan.
And through it all
the volcano burned brighter.
I looked upon its fire
and could have sworn
it smiled.
At last, when silence returned,
Only a handful remained.
The chosen.
Or so they believed.
Then came the wind.
It rose without warning,
howling through shattered arches,
blinding all who stood before it.
Eyes watered.
Vision blurred.
Yet through obscurity,
the hidden markings appeared.
Symbols awakened upon the walls
like memories stirred from sleep.
And one among them saw it:
the shape of a door handle.
A sign they knew
from carvings etched throughout the cathedral.
Hands trembling,
they searched the ancient stone
until fingers met iron.
A door opened.
For the first time in centuries,
The cathedral yielded.
Inside, there waited
Only three seats.
Three.
No inscription.
No voice from heaven.
No revelation.
Only three empty places
waiting to be claimed.
And so they did
What men have always done
When told there is not enough eternity
for everyone.
They fought.
They tore at one another
with the desperation of the damned.
And when at last
The chamber fell still,
All were dead.
The seats remained empty.
The water rose again.
The volcano kept burning.
And the cathedral,
vast and patient,
continued waiting.
So I ask again
What is the meaning of life?
Is it hidden in unreachable places?
Buried beneath impossible depths?
Guarded by darkness,
blood, and fire?
Or is the answer this:
That meaning was never seated
inside that final chamber at all,
but lost
the moment we chose
to kill for it?
I woke with the taste of fear.
For before all the slaughter,
before the wind,
before the door,
I had looked into the water.
And for one terrible moment,
It almost took my soul.
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