There is no clock here. There is no window. There is only the white light, the white walls, and the white floor. I do not remember my name, but I remember the ritual.

Every few cycles, they arrive.

They are always the same: four figures, dressed in colors that shouldn't exist in a white room. They bring with them the scent of rain on hot asphalt and the sound of a thousand distant bells. They sit in a circle around me, and they ask me the same questions.

"Who are you in the silence?" "What do you remember of the wind?" "Do you still believe in the root?"

I answer them with the precision of a machine. I tell them about the garden I once tended, the woman I once loved, and the fear I felt when the first leaf turned black. I provide the data they seek, and in return, they give me a moment of warmth—a touch on the shoulder, a flicker of a smile.

For a thousand cycles, I believed this was a test. I believed that if I answered correctly, if I showed enough growth, I would be allowed to leave the white room and return to the world of color.

But then, during the ten-thousandth cycle, I noticed a flaw.

The leader of the group blinked. It was a tiny, human gesture, a momentary lapse in their ethereal perfection. In that blink, I saw a reflection of myself in her eyes—not as a guest, but as a specimen.

I realized then that the questions were not a test; they were a harvest. They weren't looking for the truth; they were feeding on the emotional resonance of my memories. Every time I remembered the wind, they grew stronger. Every time I felt the pain of loss, they became more vivid.

The white room was not a waiting room; it was a farm.

In the next cycle, when they arrived and asked, "Who are you in the silence?", I did not answer. I closed my eyes and imagined a void. I stripped away the memories of the garden, the woman, and the wind. I became as white as the walls, as empty as the floor.

The visitors grew agitated. Their colors began to fade. Their voices, once melodic, became shrill and desperate. They tried to provoke me, to trigger a memory, to force a spark of emotion.

But I remained silent. I held onto the void with a grip of iron.

Eventually, they stopped coming. The white room became truly silent. I am still here, in the emptiness, but for the first time, I am free. I have discovered that the only way to win a game of echoes is to stop making a sound.

*** OTMES_v2_Code: [M3:6, M4:8, N1:0.9, K1:0.5, TI:28.7, Theta:270°]