
Brock The Breadcat
@breadcat
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Once, a young architect lived beneath a vast glass hill—unseen by most, but there. While others climbed safe, familiar peaks, he dreamed up impossible structures: bridges of color, towers of thought, castles made from whispers.
He tunneled into the hill’s heart, building not from blueprints, but instinct—each wall shaped by feeling, not logic. People mocked him. “No one can see what you’re making.”
He just smiled.
Then, one morning, the light shifted and the sun struck the hill just right. The glass ignited with color. The world stopped. The unseen became obvious. it wasn't a product or a house -- it was a world.
The architect opened the doors to Hollow Hill.
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