The Hollow Choir is not a place people visit on purpose. It’s a structure—if that’s the right word—that sits half inside the world and half inside whatever comes after the world has grown tired of itself. Most describe it as a hall of stone columns arranged with the enthusiasm of someone assembling furniture without reading the instructions.
The acoustics are remarkable, which would be a selling point if anyone enjoyed what the place has to say. Sounds behave strangely here. Whispers return as arguments, footsteps return as confessions, and sometimes there is singing when absolutely no one is present. Scholars blame the architecture; the architecture steadfastly refuses to comment.
Fragments retrieved from the Hollow Choir usually carry a faint resonance, like objects that once lived near a speaker set to “regret.” Surfaces are smooth, edges are rounded, and some pieces vibrate softly when held, though this could simply be the holder’s nerves.
Attempts to record the Choir’s ambient sound have failed. Equipment turns off, tapes erase themselves, and digital files return as long stretches of silence interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. No one in the room recalls doing it.
Whether the Choir is hollow because of its shape or because something vital once left it is a matter of ongoing academic debate. The Choir offers neither harmony nor explanation—just the persistent suggestion that some echoes should remain unanswered.