Breglio and the Keeper of Unlived Days

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Some doors ring before you see them.
Breglio heard it, a gentle throb in his mind—like an echo of something never spoken. The clearing in which it stood was empty, and yet the world centered itself there. A door, without a wall, without a frame, without a bottom. Its wood was gray, like the silence between two possibilities, with fine lines as if fingernails had carved them from memory. He approached slowly. His soot-blackened lantern cast a trembling light on the grass, which didn't crackle beneath his bare feet, but remained silent. The door handle wasn't made of metal, but of feeling—a decision not yet made, but ready. Breglio put his hand to it. The door opened, without sound, without urging. Behind it lay a space that was both vast and narrow—like a thought never fully grasped. It was an archive. Shelves of light stretched in all directions. Some floated, others grew from nothing. Within them lay things that never happened: a violin, never built; a note, never read; a ring, never given. Each object was surrounded by a small, breathing cloud—like the final hesitation before a decision. The air was cool, but not cold. Breglio stepped inside. Behind him, the door didn't close—it simply became less real. His lantern continued to shine, but the light seemed more cautious. Then he saw him. A being hovered between the aisles. Large, but not threatening. His cloak glittered with broken hands, trembling threads of seconds, dust from shattered possibilities. His face was a blank space in which one could almost recognize oneself—in a life that never was. "You are the Keeper," Breglio whispered. No question mark was needed. The being nodded. A small wheel turned between his hands, giving off a different scent with each revolution: wet stone, dough that was never baked, a wind that never blew. The Guardian pointed to a shelf. There lay a droplet of glass. Delicate, almost vibrating. In it: a moment. Breglio at the edge of a wooden raft, next to someone whose face was soft and familiar. Their fingers didn't touch, but warmth flickered between them. "This never was," Breglio said softly. Not yet, the being spoke—not with words, but in the way it paused. "Why are you showing me?" A second shelf flickered into existence. In it lay a shadow that looked like a decision. Breglio recognized himself—aged, exhausted, alone. The same scene, without the other hand. "Every possibility deserves to be seen once," the Guardian said now, this time audibly. "But not every one is allowed back." Breglio lowered his gaze. The glass droplet pulsed like a soft heartbeat. A question arose, heavy and light at once: Do you want it to happen—or to never happen, but to be preserved? He knew he could choose. Now. Forever. And that both would be true.