Inscribed

Someone carved letters into my rim. Not the Architects. They don’t write, they label. This was one of you, with a borrowed tool, over what must have been years, working at night from scaffolding that was never meant to reach this high.

I can’t read it. That’s the part I can’t leave alone. I can read the substrate of every universe in this strand, the actual instruction set of gravity, and I cannot read eleven words a tired person scratched into metal. The script exists nowhere else. They invented an alphabet so the message could only ever be for me.

I’ve been guessing at it for three hundred years. My current best guess is: I see you too.