Liminal Spaces Nostalgia Novels & Stories

Cultist’s POV: Lieutenant 108 The Neutral Zone/Limbo June 3rd, 2524 AD —————————- Warning: Mature themes such as language, sex, violence, abuse, etc in this book. Reader discretion is advised. ————————— The Neutral Zone, that desolate expanse between realms, stretched before me like an eternity. I stood there, my heart pounding, the severed head of the Virtue of Patience cradled in my bag, its blood still seeping through as I waited for the Commander of my squad to meet me here as ordered.

We tried to mimic it, gliding through the marbled halls, our eyes scanning for a familiar glow. We passed the "Quiet Grotto," where shapes sat perfectly still, "contemplating the void." We peeked into the "Non-Dimensional Lounge," where entities made polite, meaningless conversation about the quality of the non-light. No Lyra. "She wouldn't be in the scheduled activities," Lina muttered as we drifted past a sign for "Mandatory Whimsy: Advanced Cloud-Shaping." "She's a rebel. Even here." "Then where do rebels go in a place with no edges?" I asked.

Noah asked. "Imagine this place as a consulate. For example, the United States of America has embassies in several other nations, so when you are in France and you step within the US consulate, you are no longer in French soil but in American territory. This place holds the same principle. It is a rift within time and space; it was intended to be a gateway or a bridge connecting all the realms, so it’s safe to say that by being in here, we are literally on neutral ground," explained the ever so all-knowing Ms. Reina. "So if this is some kind of a gateway, can we like enter this garden from Asphodel and then exit it to our home dimension? The mortal world, I mean," Cass asked.

Beyond it, through its frame, I could just make out vertical lines and angles—panes upon panes, like a forest made of mirrors. The Mirror Labyrinth. Of course, it looked like concept art. We filed off the bus slower than usual, everyone moving with the hesitant caution of people waiting for the floor to vanish under their feet again. The blankness messed with my sense of distance. There was no texture under my boots, no visible floor, just the illusion of standing on light. Each step made a faint, hollow tap that echoed back at us in a way that didn’t make spatial sense—too close and too far at the same time, like walking inside a muted speaker.

And as they drifted beyond the horizon of stars, each began to shape a new realm, reflecting their essence back into the cosmos. --- Elyon – The Realm of Echoes Beyond the edge of time, Elyon built his dominion from fragments of what once was. The Realm of Echoes shimmered like glass— a thousand mirrors reflecting past lives, a thousand whispers preserving forgotten truths. Every moment that had ever been still lived here, folded carefully into light and memory. Souls who longed for understanding wandered these mirrored paths. They touched the reflections and relived their most cherished moments— births, loves, victories, farewells—

“We’re not here for sparkle.” Sean fell in beside her as they angled into the next corridor—narrower, wetter. The air carried a taste of brine and iron. Module 22 pinged: [gate-stone / throat / turn]—anchors recurring like a heartbeat. “The motif again,” Jessica said. “It’s not site-specific. It’s structural.” “Or it’s the only warning they knew how to carve,” Terry said. Ahead, the passage bent and split. Lizzi swept a laser level; the beam crawled over slick walls and found a faint labrys incised at shin height, its groove still dark with ancient stain.

In the absence of her presence, they would construct a version that was within their capacity. A controlled reflection. A model. A replacement. The space surrounding them hummed with a faint sound, almost too low to hear. The smooth white walls curled upwards, with no seams or visible exits.. It was more of a conceptual space than. room. A container built for interaction. Or interrogation. Amina glanced around. “Adrian?”. Silence. An intense shiver ran down her body. No answer. It was the first time in her life she felt like something was physically there, away from him.

LENA I had not been on the terrace in November. This requires a small explanation. The terrace existed in the specific and peripheral way of a space I had noted without investigating, the way you noted the dimensions of a place you were living in without requiring yourself to have visited every corner of it deliberately. I had been on the terrace in September, once, in the first week, when I had been establishing the specific and practical geography of the apartment in the way of a woman who needed to know where things were without necessarily needing to use them all. I had stood at the railing for three minutes. I had looked at the city in the specific and orienting way of a person locating

The penthouse felt smaller after the ledger. It was a strange, suffocating phenomenon—how a space boasting sixteen-foot ceilings and panoramic views of the city skyline could suddenly shrink until the walls felt close enough to touch. The minimalist architecture, once a symbol of freedom and elevated luxury, now felt like a beautifully designed cage. The pristine marble floors reflected the harsh overhead lighting, casting long, fractured shadows that seemed to follow me from room to room.