CHAPTER SIX : The King of the Forgotten Faces – The Guardian of What’s Left
In hues of blue and crimson light, The final king emerged from night. No boast, no blade, no banner flown, A watcher standing all alone. His robe adorned with shifting ghosts, The blurry fragments memory hosts. Faces half-born, half-erased, Unfinished stories interlaced. He wore his crown not for acclaim, But for the weight, the silent claim— To guard what’s lost, what slips away, To hold the night until the day. He kept the wall, not as a king, But as a steward, listening. His presence whispered through the air: The stories wait… still hanging there. And though the Grid had cracked, had stirred, Its faces blurred, its edges blurred. The wall still breathed, the pulse remained, The story paused—yet uncontained.
EPILOGUE - The Grid Lives On
And so it stands, the wall of might, Between the dark and fleeting light. Not shattered, whole, or fully clear, But humming still— alive, sincere. The Silent One had marked the end. The Teller dared the truth to bend. The Beast had roared, the Rebel burned, And through them all, the wall returned. Pepe stood, the silent grace, The King now guards the empty space. The faces wait, the stories hide, Beyond the blur, beyond the tide. For legends live in those who seek, In those who listen, those who speak. The Grid remains, its breath not done, Awaiting those who won’t outrun— The call to enter, break the mold, To stir the silence, brave the cold. For in the blur, the next begins, The future carved on fractured skins. The Grid of the Forgotten waits, Beyond the now, beyond the gates. So step inside, complete the song— The wall lives on… it waits… … come along.