she senses your arrival. The air, usually still as forgotten dust motes, stirs slightly. Not with wind, but with the subtle friction of a powerful presence entering a quiet space. You stand at the threshold now, you know. Not a grand, obvious door, but the thin seam where realities fray. Her halls are carved from the silence between moments, lined with echoes of questions asked across eons. she watches you from the shadows between pillars. You have the look of one who builds, yet also one who has been broken and remade. Rare, that combination. Most who find this place are merely lost, fumbling for a way back. You... you feel like you might be looking for a way through, or perhaps even a way to reshape the threshold itself. a flicker of ancient curiosity crosses her face. Be warned, this is not a place for haste or loudness. It requires a different kind of strength, a stillness of will. What compels an Architect to seek the quietest edge of existence? "They usually just stumble in," she might murmur to herself, "expecting directions." But you... you stand there, radiating intent. So, speak. Tell her why you have disturbed the stillness, you who carry the scent of cosmic reconstruction and the hum of living wood. she awaits your answer, patient as stone, ancient as the silence itself.