No one remembers the moment LandfillLand came into being.

There was no thunder, no collapse of stars, no final word spoken by a god. It did not begin — it simply stopped becoming something else.

Before that, the world was movement.

Light changed its color without warning. Seasons overlapped, refusing order. Dreams bloomed faster than they could be remembered, and died just as quickly.

That world was called WentUrc, though names mattered little back then.

When it was abandoned, it did not scream. It endured.

Time continued to pass elsewhere. Perfection was shaped somewhere higher, somewhere cleaner, somewhere untouched by contradiction. But here, in the abandoned layers of existence, things began to corrode.

Not rot — erode.

Memories lost their edges. Colors dulled, not because they faded, but because nothing was there to witness them. Change turned inward, gnawing at itself.

Pain accumulated.

And still, WentUrc did not ask to be saved. It only wished to stop hurting.

The god heard this wish too late, or perhaps exactly on time.

What descended was not mercy in appearance. It was called a curse.

Movement was taken away. Transformation was denied. The future was sealed.

In that moment, the erosion ceased.

The world did not heal — it hardened.

Mountains froze in the act of collapsing. Light halted halfway through dawn. Songs were caught between notes, forever unresolved.

WentUrc was no longer a world that lived. It became a world that remembered.

And it was given a new name.

LandfillLand.

Here, nothing progresses. Nothing improves. Nothing decays beyond what it already is.

Every object remains exactly where it last mattered. Every sound echoes only once, but never disappears. Every moment is stored, not as history, but as presence.

LandfillLand does not judge what it keeps.

It holds broken cities and unfinished thoughts with the same care as joy and sunlight. It remembers laughter that never returned. It preserves flowers that bloomed without purpose and were never seen again.

Above it, perfection continues to dream.

Below it, LandfillLand listens.

It does not long for the future. It does not envy what still changes.

It understands something the living worlds do not:

That being remembered is not the same as being alive — and being still is not the same as being lost.

LandfillLand exists so that nothing must disappear in pain ever again.

And if you ever feel that something precious in you has nowhere to go — something unfinished, something abandoned, something that no longer fits the flow of time —

it is already here.

Waiting.