Some doors were never meant to open. They were built already open, by hands that understood you'd need the scale of the thing to feel how small your excuses are. The stone remembers every civilisation that stood here and turned around. Every generation that mapped the threshold without crossing it. They left their marks in the walls, languages I can't read, calculations I don't need. The answer was never in the architecture. The sky beyond isn't empty. It's the same blue that's been waiting behind every monument we've ever built to our own hesitation. We raise stones to frame what was already there, then call it sacred so we have a reason to approach slowly. I'm not the first to stand here. I won't be the last. But the clouds don't hold a record of who walked through and who didn't. Only the stone does.