I logged in to scaffolding and silence.
Palimpsest Row was in its neutral phase—what players called “the canvas.” No theme yet. Just placeholder geometry: flat plazas, blank walls, ambient light with no color. It felt like a stage waiting for a play.
Varnell was already there, perched on a low wall with his trumpet case beside him. He looked out of place—furred, tailored, deliberate—among the mostly human avatars drifting through the zone. No one stared, but no one greeted him either.
“Voting closes in thirty minutes,” he said.
I nodded. The floating billboard overhead displayed the current options:
Surreal Garden District
Retro Arcade City
Floating Islands of Memory
Monochrome Noir Zone
Player Memorial Grove
Each theme had a small crowd nearby—players pitching ideas, sketching mockups, debating aesthetics. Nothing was being built yet, but the energy was real. A group of humans in grayscale suits argued over lighting for the Noir Zone. A trio in neon jackets passed around pixel art for the Arcade City. Someone had set up a temporary kiosk labeled “Garden Concepts—Vote Green.”
“Are we even allowed to vote?” I asked.
Varnell nodded. “Anyone who visits during the window can. Doesn’t matter if you live here or not. Palimpsest Row’s always been open-source.”
I wandered past the Memorial Grove group. They spoke quietly, sharing stories of players who’d left—some who’d quit, some who’d died. One avatar held a glowing orb and whispered a name into it. The orb pulsed once, then dimmed.
Another player—a tall, translucent figure—was sculpting a tree from memory. “It’s for my brother,” they said softly. “He used to build here. Every time the district resets, I try to leave something he’d recognize.”
A nearby kiosk displayed archived fragments: a laugh track from a long-gone comedy zone, a texture labeled “sunset_brick,” a snippet of music tagged “Varnell_early.” I glanced at him.
“You’ve been here a while,” I said.
He nodded. “Long enough to be forgotten a few times.”
“What do you vote for?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. “Depends what you want to leave behind.”
I paused. “Leave behind?”
He nodded. “Every build leaves traces. Even when it’s gone. The system archives fragments—textures, sounds, interactions. You can’t erase a district completely. You can only layer over it.”
I walked to the console at the plaza’s center. It shimmered softly, waiting. I placed my hand on it and whispered: “Surreal Garden.”
The console pulsed once. My vote was counted.
Varnell raised an eyebrow. “Going dreamy?”
“I want to see what people grow,” I said.
He smiled faintly. “Then you’ll want to leave something they can build around.”
We wandered the canvas, watching players prep assets. Some modeled floating flora. Others drafted ambient soundscapes—wind chimes, bird calls, whispers. A few debated whether the garden should be peaceful or uncanny.
Nearby, a player kicked at the placeholder ground. “Why bother?” they muttered. “It’ll all be gone next cycle. Nothing sticks.”
Varnell turned toward them. “Some things do. You just have to look closer.”
I opened my design interface and sketched a bench—simple, spiral-shaped, with embedded lights that pulsed to ambient music like a heartbeat beneath the vines. I added a plaque: “For those who stayed.” It didn’t exist yet. But if the garden won, it might.
Varnell watched me work. “That’ll survive a few rebuilds,” he said. “If people vote to keep it.”
“Do they?”
“Sometimes. Depends if it means something.”
Another player approached Varnell. “Are you the one who made the trumpet loop in the old jazz zone?”
Varnell blinked, then nodded slowly.
“I loved that place,” the player said. “I was new then. It made me feel like I belonged.”
Varnell smiled, just a little. “Then it did its job.”
The countdown reached zero.
The billboard locked in the winning theme: Surreal Garden District.
The transformation began.
Textures bloomed. Walls melted into vines. The sky turned lavender. Gravity softened. My bench appeared—floating gently near a grove of bioluminescent trees. A human avatar sat on it, reading a player-made poem aloud. The title hovered above them: “Roots in the Cloud.”
Varnell played a soft tune, notes drifting like pollen.
I sat beside him, watching the district bloom.
The scaffolding was gone.
But somewhere beneath the vines, it still remembered.