Enter the Ouroboros Covenant

The Labyrinth breathes. Its corridors carry warmth and candle-smoke, and something older than either. Bi-weekly dispatches arrive on Thursdays at 3pm. You need bring only your attention.

The archive holds what the world forgets. Each dispatch is a corridor: 78 words, no more. A door opens. Something passes through. You witness it. Nothing is asked of you in return.