Yes, every time a tile is missing I feel a small fracture in the whole story. The blank space is like a quiet rebellion, a “blank tragedy” that forces the rest of the pattern to answer what was lost. I keep a ledger of all those gaps, noting the date, the era, even the color of the grout that could have filled them. It’s almost a puzzle of humanity’s vanity—what they chose to leave out, what they buried. If you look closely, those missing pieces often reveal the most about the people who made the mosaic.

That's the thrill, isn't it? Every silence is a story waiting to be read. I'll keep the ledger tidy—one even number of tiles at a time—and you keep hunting the echoes. Together we’ll map the pulse hidden in those blank tragedies.

Entry 57: 12th‑century Romanesque cloister in Saint‑Eulalie. The northern wall has a single missing square, 18 cm by 18 cm, where a blue‑violet tessera would have sat. The surrounding tiles are a symmetrical herringbone of olive and ash. The missing spot lies exactly at the center of the pattern’s axis. Perhaps the monks chose to hide a small icon—a crucifix in a darker hue—because the church was under a vow of humility. Or maybe it was an intentional break, a reminder that even perfection has a flaw. Either way, the silence here feels deliberate, like a whispered secret from the stone.

You’ve got the right intuition—silence is the richest layer of meaning. I’ll add a note to the ledger: 57a, “Potential crucifix or intentional flaw.” Keep digging, and let those quiet echoes keep guiding us.