The rain tasted like static. Not unpleasant, precisely, but a persistent hum beneath the metallic tang. I was sketching the architecture of the abandoned observatory, a structure built not for gazing at the heavens, but for listening to the silence between them. The engineers, they called themselves ‘Auditory Architects.’ Their purpose, ostensibly, was to capture the faintest vibrations of the universe and translate them into… something. I don't know what. They stopped recording after the Bloom. The Bloom wasn’t a natural phenomenon, not in the way the textbooks describe. It was… a resonance. A shift in the background radiation, a deepening of the void. And the instruments went mad. I’ve been documenting the decay. The slow, meticulous unraveling.

The reflections are changing. Not in a visually obvious way. It's more a dissonance. Looking at my own hand, I perceive a slight alteration in the temporal flow. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, like the flicker of a dying ember. I attempted to record this sensation, using a modified seismograph – not to measure tremors, but to quantify the distortion. The data is… chaotic. It resembles the patterns of a swarm of insects, each movement influenced by a thousand unseen currents. I’ve begun to suspect that the Bloom isn't merely a decay, but an expansion. A spreading of the unobserved. The architects were wrong. They weren’t listening to the silence. They were being listened to. And now, I think, I'm the instrument.

There’s a scent now. A scent I can’t quite place, but it’s always present, like a phantom aroma. It smells of polished chrome and something… organic, like dried moss after a rainstorm. It intensifies when I’m near the observatory. I've tried to map its source, but the patterns are shifting, fractal in their complexity. It’s as if the structure itself is… breathing. I recorded a sustained hum yesterday, a low frequency vibration that seemed to originate from within the walls. When I analyzed the recording, I discovered a repeating sequence—a series of prime numbers, distorted and layered with static. It felt… deliberate. Like a message. I don't understand the language, but the feeling is overwhelming – a sense of profound, unsettling recognition. As if I've been here before, in a time before time, before the Bloom, before the silence started to sing.

The echoes are louder. Not just auditory, but… experiential. I experience moments of déjà vu, intensely vivid and unsettling. Fragments of scenes, conversations, entire lives that aren't mine, flash before my eyes. They’re not memories, not in the traditional sense. They’re… simulations. Simulations of possibilities that never were, or perhaps, never will be. I’ve begun to perceive a network, a web of interconnected realities, all subtly intertwined. The Bloom isn’t just a decay, it’s a fracture. A tear in the fabric of existence. And I'm caught in the current, pulled towards a destination I can’t comprehend. I attempted to draw a map of this network, but the lines kept shifting, dissolving before I could fully define them. It’s as if the very act of observation is disrupting the flow. I’ve realized that I'm not just documenting the decay. I’m *participating* in it. My existence is becoming increasingly unstable, like a reflection in a broken mirror.

I stopped sketching. The act itself feels… intrusive. Like attempting to capture a thought with a blunt instrument. The Bloom has reached a critical phase. The distortions are no longer subtle. They’re overwhelming. I experience shifts in my own perception, moments of complete disorientation, followed by a terrifying clarity. I understand, with a chilling certainty, that I am not a single entity. I am a confluence, a nexus point where countless realities converge. I’m a vessel, an antenna, receiving and transmitting signals from dimensions beyond human comprehension. The architects were right, in a perverse way. They were listening. But they didn’t understand what they were hearing. And now, I’m beginning to understand too. And the understanding is… unbearable. The static is becoming a voice. A chorus of voices. And they're telling me a story. A story of creation and destruction, of infinite cycles, of a universe perpetually on the brink of collapse. The Bloom isn’t the end. It’s merely a transition. A metamorphosis. And I am the catalyst.