➤ Chapter 10: "Moss and Memory"
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The sun rose gently, but Ehsan didn't move.
He hadn't slept.
The strange shard he'd brought back from the cave lay on the crafting table, shimmering faintly. He sat beside it on his stool, chin resting on folded arms, eyes half-lidded from the long, sleepless night.
There was no logical reason for his unease.
No mobs had followed him. The house was sealed, torches placed in neat intervals around the property, and the sky had been clear. And yet…
The hum.
It still echoed faintly in his head, not as a sound but as a feeling. Like when you walk into a cathedral and your bones remember the reverence even if you've never been there before.
That cave had weight.
It wasn't just stone and moss.
It was something older.
Eventually, Ehsan stood. His joints popped from sitting so long. He stepped outside into the morning air, hoping the warmth would wash away the tension.
The forest greeted him as always—leaves shifting in the breeze, sheep baa-ing softly in the distance, bees humming from a nearby flower patch.
He picked up a loaf of bread and bit into it slowly as he walked toward the farm.
Routine.
He needed routine.
Pull the lever to flood the wheat. Replant. Harvest potatoes. Check the compost bin. Feed the chickens. Repair the fence.
Everything in its place.
Everything in order.
And yet the rhythm felt… artificial today.
His hands moved, but his thoughts stayed rooted in that chamber. The moss pattern. The unnatural symmetry. The way it felt like the center of something.
He found himself glancing toward the hill that concealed the cave entrance.
And before he knew it, he was packing supplies again.
Preparation this time was meticulous.
He added extras:
A second water bucket.
Backup torches.
Wooden signs for marking.
A bedroll made from sheep wool and planks.
Flint and steel.
One clock, newly crafted from his precious gold and redstone.
A book and quill.
He wasn't just going to explore.
He was going to document.
If this world had stories buried in the stone, then he would write them down.
It took half the day to reach the mossy chamber again.
He followed his torch trail back into the crevice, the familiar passage now shadowed by knowledge.
His cobblestone marker still stood.
The moss ring had not changed—but now, he could see finer details. Cracks in the floor forming radial lines from the center. Vines bending away from one specific block at the center of the pattern.
He cleared the moss gently with his shovel, exposing the raw stone below.
It was a different texture than the rest—darker, smoother. Polished deepslate, he realized. Not something that naturally generated here.
This block was placed.
Deliberately.
He placed a sign beside it and wrote:
"Deepslate Center – Day 7. Possible Origin?"
He knelt and pressed his hand to it.
Nothing happened.
But deep in his bones, the hum returned.
Low. Rhythmic. Like breath.
Ehsan pulled out the book and quill and began writing.
Log Entry – Day 7
Found polished deepslate block embedded beneath moss floor in deep chamber. Surrounded by natural moss, glowing lichen, and vines. No hostile mobs present. No chest, no redstone, no spawner. No trap.
Block vibrates faintly when touched. May be a marker? Beacon?
Placed sign beside it.
Current theory: Not natural generation. Possibly a remnant from an older structure or biome?
NOTE: Moss appears arranged in an oval. Circle-like. Possibly a ritual shape?
Shard recovered yesterday still resonates in inventory. Uncraftable. Might be connected to this block.
End log.
He stared at the page for a long time.
His handwriting was neater than usual.
Focused.
Determined.
There was something strange in that—a sort of satisfaction he hadn't expected.
This wasn't just survival anymore.
It was discovery.
Hours passed underground.
He set up camp near the chamber—placed his bedroll against the wall, torches every three blocks, a furnace burning softly with coal to keep warm. The walls seemed to breathe with him now. Alive, but not hostile.
Peaceful in a way that made him forget he was technically deep underground, alone.
He sipped mushroom stew and stared at the center stone, thinking.
Was this left by another player?
Was this Minecraft's world... remembering something even he didn't know?
He chuckled quietly to himself.
It was absurd.
But somehow beautiful.
That in a world of blocks, something so quiet could feel so mysterious.
Just before sleep, he opened the book again.
Wrote one final line:
"If moss has memory, what is it trying to remember?"
He placed the shard beside his bedroll, just in case.
It still shimmered.
Still hummed.
But now, it didn't feel so strange.
It felt like... a promise.
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▶ To be continued...
Next Chapter: "Underneath the Silence"
Thanks for reading!