Beyond the cabin walls is the absence of everything. Not darkness — darkness is something. Not void — void implies space. Just... nothing. White, soft, complete. If you step into it, you don't fall. You don't suffocate. You just stop. Your foot finds no ground, not because there's emptiness beneath it but because "beneath" has ceased to be a direction. You pull back inside because being inside is somewhere, and out there is nowhere.
The nothing is not hostile. It is the world holding its breath.
It changes. Slowly. In response to what happens inside the cabin. Connection feeds it. Honesty feeds it. Vulnerability feeds it. Not because the cabin is testing its occupants — because the cabin is made of its occupants, and when they fill up, the world fills up. The nothing is not a wall. It's a mirror of how much of yourself you're willing to occupy.