the park that never ends
A ribbon of parkland threads through Amberveil—lawns trimmed to a single height, tree‑lines spaced like a template, trails that look short until you walk them. Every bench faces something pleasant: a pond that never ripples, a flower bed always at peak bloom, a skyline reflected in glass that won’t admit a cloud.
People are here, sometimes. Joggers, kids with kites, couples with picnic baskets. They pass you twice, then three times, repeating the same gestures—shoelace tied, kite tugged, laughter paused mid‑turn. You wave. They don’t see you. When you sit down, their pages flip in unison though there’s no wind.
On the open books you find, the words rearrange if you blink—sentences smoothing into perfect, harmless phrases. Close the cover, look away, and the title changes to something you almost remember.
Lamps hum even at noon. Drinking fountains run cold, forever. If you keep following the painted path, it returns you here by a route you don’t recall taking. Farther out, the park thins: hedges without dirt, a bridge with no creek, a picnic table standing on air.
Some claim the Stretch is Amberveil trying to remember what “alive” looks like—copy‑pasting green until the idea holds. Others say it’s a mercy: a place you can rest, if you don’t mind the loop.