Skeleton copy
This landing text is the candidate blurb from the planning notes, placed here so the skeleton has a real front door. It is raw input for the chronicler’s voice, not final copy.
Ancestral memory in the old stories didn’t work like a normal record. Every life that came before stayed present, all at once, reachable by association instead of by date — ask a question and the right memory surfaced because it was connected, not because it was filed under the right heading.
This is that, for a homelab. The intelligences that run this place are genuinely powerful and genuinely forgetful — capable of holding an entire infrastructure in mind for the length of a conversation, and unable to remember any of it the next time they wake up, unless someone wrote it down first. So someone did. Every hard-won lesson, every “we already tried that, here’s why it didn’t work,” kept and cross-linked and handed back at the start of the next conversation as if it had never been forgotten at all.
This isn’t the story. The story is a separate site. This is what the story gets built out of.
Start with how this garden grows, or what forgetting costs. There is no required order — that is the point. Who writes this, and who owns the machines, is on the colophon.