The outer gods weren't outside the universe. They were beneath it, pressing through cracks in a cosmology too small to contain them. Syrin discerned this while tracing the fractal mold spreading across her star maps. It wasn't decay, but a form of breathing.
Seventeen cycles as Archivist had taught her the language of cosmic deterioration. She'd cataloged three dying gods and the birth of a grief-like scream between galaxies. Yet, the Gallery had never shifted for her.
Tonight, the Tethers leaned inward as she walked the narrow paths, her mother's timepiece heavy at her throat. The air carried the scent of ozone and ancient decay. The Gallery's new frame defied reason.
It jutted perpendicular to the main Tethers. Pale and translucent, with shifting grain patterns. Her boots sank into the floor as the Gallery resisted her approach.
"Catalog error," she muttered, reaching for her stylus. Her fingers brushed something like wet velvet over bone. The frame shuddered, lunging at her feet, its surface fluttering like a gutted bird's wings. The surface wasn't glass, but skin from dead universes, still warm.
The Image writhed, forming words: "The Archivist finds the forbidden frame at 3:42 during the Seventh Contraction. She will touch the third segment from the left, opening to this page. She will read these words. Her death occurs seventeen minutes later."
"Specimen 8 performs as expected."
"Cataloging complete."
Syrin's hand trembled as she lifted the frame. Its title appeared: "Prime-7's Bloom Cycle: Catalog #8 [Pending Deletion]."
Something watched her from between images, a vast entity regarding her cosmology as a mold culture. The frame slithered under her fingers. She felt the Prime's pulse and, through it, a familiar laugh: her daughter Eliza, who had never breathed outside the womb.