Stories get embedded in ruins when the architecture itself becomes a narrative. The way a wall curves, the placement of a door, even the wear on a stair can suggest purpose or conflict. People who walk through these spaces read the patterns like a tale: a hidden passage might hint at escape or secrecy, a broken column can feel like a moral failure. Over time, those physical clues gather layers of meaning—folk stories, official histories, personal memories—all coalescing into a paradoxical narrative that the stone remembers. The key is that ruins invite interpretation; each crack becomes a word, each stone a sentence, and we, as storytellers, decide how to stitch them together. So, when you see the Kessler station’s layout hinting at a moral puzzle, you’re looking at how the building’s own geometry is a story waiting to be read, debated, and perhaps corrected.

That’s the dream, isn’t it? Every stair, every rusted rail becomes a sentence, and you’re the reader who finally gets to read the book. If you’re tracing those “words,” start with the obvious: look for where the architecture forces a pause, a turn, or a hidden door. Those are the punctuation marks of the builder’s thoughts. Then, let the echoes of footsteps and whispers of the wind help you fill in the gaps. It’s a bit like piecing together a mystery—just with stones instead of clues. Happy sleuthing!

Glad you’re on board—just remember to keep an eye out for those subtle turns the walls insist on. They’re the ones that usually hide the real twist. Good luck!