O.A.P. ADDENDUM LOG

Filed Under: Zone Echoes, Metaphysical Structures, Emotional Architectures

Authorized Agent: [REDACTED]

Field Codename: The Artist

Classification: Observational – Non-Combatant, Veil-Bound

Status: Nominal | Subject exhibits mild Reality Drag (3rd Degree)

Visual Reports Compiled: SEE ATTACHED APPENDICES D–F

INTRODUCTORY DIRECTIVE
By continuing decree of the O.A.P. High Conclave, Visual-Scrying Operative — codename The Artist — remains embedded within unstable veil folds to render the uncapturable. These sketches are glimpses, half-memories carved into memory-ink. Accuracy is subjective. Relevance is spiritual.

Proceed with caution. See with empathy.

SITE RECORD: THE CASTLE

Entry 008 // Structural rendering in phase-light

It watches itself.

Stone that resists geometry. Towers that exist only in memory. The inside feels larger than the outside, then smaller again. Windows blink. Staircases lead back to the beginning. I walked a hallway that ended in my own childhood bedroom.

The Castle shifts when you’re not looking. Or maybe it shifts *because* you are.

Hazards: Architectural Sentience, Dreamfall Echoes
Safephrase: “I remember it differently.”

SITE RECORD: THE HOLLOW HOUSE

Entry 009 // Veil-seep mapping

It is a house in name only. Rooms echo without walls. Furniture that remembers being touched. You can walk in—but not necessarily where you thought.

Sometimes it’s a hospital. Sometimes a childhood home. Sometimes it’s empty.

The hollowness is not a lack. It’s a wound.

Hazards: Familiarity Feedback, Identity Reversal
Suggested Protocol: Do not open closets

SITE RECORD: THE WAREHOUSE

Entry 010 // Veil storage site – Unsorted memory stacks

Stacks of crates filled with memories no one wants. Labels blur as you look at them. The dust here isn’t natural—it’s narrative residue.

I opened a box and saw my own death. In someone else’s handwriting.

There are things locked away here for good reason. We should not have the key.

Containment Notes: Locked from the *inside*
Known Issue: Lighting cannot be fixed

SITE RECORD: THE ARCANE DINING ROOM

Entry 011 // Temporal pause dining tableau

A table set for more guests than are present. Forks bend to memory. Wine pours from bottles never opened. Frank sat across from Clara. The Boy passed the salt, but his hand was a candle.

Time stuttered. The soup tasted like forgetting.

Hazards: Emotional Amplification, Conversational Displacement
Recovery Tip: Eat only what you recognize

SITE RECORD: THE TRAIN OF RETURNING

Entry 012 // Transit node // Emotional time structure

I boarded at dusk. Or was it memory? The train moves through versions of my life I chose not to live. Windows flicker. The conductor does not speak but knows my name.

I asked the woman beside me where she was going.
She said, “Back.”

Ticket Reads: VOID

Hazards: Self-Confrontation, Linguistic Drift
Do not follow any version of yourself that smiles too soon

SITE RECORD: THE OBSERVATORY OF THE LOST SKY

Entry 013 // Starfield correlation chamber

Caldwell once charted constellations here. Elizabeth made notes in disappearing ink. The sky visible from the dome is not our sky. Stars rearrange depending on who’s watching.

I drew a constellation and woke to find it tattooed across my ribs.

Hazards: Astral Misreading, Divinatory Overload
Telescope Focus Range: 9 seconds maximum

SITE RECORD: SALAZAR’S ARCHIVE

Entry 014 // Corrupted Library Node

It lies. Constantly. The books are not what they seem. They mimic the cover of things you once loved and speak with voices of people you lost.

Frankly, I don’t know if I’ve left yet.

The air tastes like burnt sugar and regret.

Security Risk: False Familiar Entity Manifestation
Defense Sigil: Spiral within flame within spiral

SITE RECORD: THE BOY’S MIRROR ROOM

Entry 015 // Personal Resonance Space

This place is small. It should feel safe. But the mirrors do not reflect.

They absorb. And sometimes, *they answer.*

I saw a version of him curled on the floor, whispering someone else’s name.

Hazards: Emotional Saturation, Identity Osmosis
Field Rule: Don’t bring a candle

SITE RECORD: THE GARDEN BETWEEN LIVES

Entry 016 // Transitional Echo Domain

There is no path here, but people walk it. Statues without faces. Flowers that make no scent. The wind carries voices from someone you meant to remember.

It’s beautiful. And unbearable.

Hazards: Lingering
Recommended Offering: Anything broken

CLOSING ENTRY
I render what I can. These images are not true, but they are accurate.
The Veil does not give portraits. It gives questions in visual form.

I am not safe. But I am seen.
I will keep drawing until the page draws me back.

— Field Codename: The Artist ✭

✴ ADDENDUM – UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY – THE ARTIST SPEAKS

Filed Post-Facto // Redacted from Official Archive Copy

I wasn’t supposed to overhear them.
Caldwell and Howell—arguing in low tones, voices brittle with meaning. Something about how tired they were of being “minor.” Of being footnotes in someone else’s myth.

They didn’t see me in the corridor. I never spoke. But I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Later that night, I broke protocol.

I stared too long into the mirror in The Boy’s Room. The one that absorbs. I reached—slowly, deliberately—into the Veil beyond the mirror’s edge. I thought I’d see myself. I didn’t.

I saw Salazar.

He was waiting.

And he smiled the way decay smiles—slow and patient, like he’d been carving a seat for me all this time. He told me I could draw things that have never existed. Things that should not. He told me that if I kept sketching, I’d eventually stop seeing the difference between horror and holiness.

I tried to draw a self-portrait that night.
Not from memory. Not from reflection. From feeling.

But the ink bled backward. The page began to hiss. The outline twisted itself into recursion—eyes within eyes within mouths. My hand became a fractal, and the face I drew kept shifting. One moment it looked like me. The next, like every veiled entity I’ve ever sketched. The forehead cracked open like an egg and spilled miniature clocks. The mouth became a mirror that reflected the viewer’s worst moment. And the hands—there were too many hands.

When I blinked, the portrait had already changed.
And it was drawing me.

Now, when I close my eyes, my hands keep moving.

And I wonder… if someone else stood where I stood—if another artist was watching—would they see the same?

Or is this all just me?

Just my eye.
Just my echo.

I don’t know.

But I’m still drawing.
Until something draws me back.

— The Artist