Not all maps chart land. Some trace the unseen contours of thought, memory, and meaning.
Long ago, a hidden order of cartographers set out to map what could not be held: intentions, emotions, echoes left behind in silence. They worked not with compasses or ink, but with living monuments: trees that grew in places where the contours of reality thinned.
The journey began at the 'Cliffside Sentinel', a solitary tree perched at the edge of a continent that does not appear on any map. This tree did not mark where the world ended, but where interpretation began. Those who found it had to choose: return to what they already understood, or step forward into what they might never fully grasp.
Deeper still was the 'Rooted Gate', a colossal organism whose roots encircled stone and sky alike. It stood not between two places, but between two ways of perceiving. To pass through its arch was to be stripped of names and labels, left only with unspoken truths. Here, the cartographers surrendered their last material tools and let themselves be remade by the weight of wonder.
Beyond lay the 'Skygrove': islands adrift above the clouds, each bearing a tree grown from a thought too large or too quiet for the world below. These were the final entries in their living map. Not instructions, not directions—just possibilities. Fragments of what a soul might feel if it looked inward with no fear.
The map they made was never finished.
It never could be.
Because somewhere, someone is always feeling something new.