Everything begins as a point of tension.

A single coordinate, held in the dark, waiting for its first measurement. Nothing here is solid yet — only the promise of an edge.

Then it unwinds.

One line drawn through the void at a constant rate. Follow it far enough and the dark stops being empty — it becomes a corridor.

Matter arrives as a rumour.

Ten thousand fragments, each with its own small gravity, negotiating a centre. Hold still long enough and you can watch them agree.

And the centre lets go.

What was gathered is scattered; what was measured is released. The field keeps the shape of the thing that left it.