Later, when the dizziness subsides, the fragrance seller from Bhopal helps them to a resting chamber, a place to recover from the failed elevation. They sit in silence for a long moment before the seller speaks.

"I didn't seem to be rising at all at first," they begin, voice calm and measured. "But then I let go. And then, I have no idea why—too many distractions, I guess. I started rising and the pressure started building up in my ears. At that point, I could only think to grab the cylinder, but I couldn't find it. My vision was restricted with the mask, and I couldn't actually see where it was. I was trying to slow my ascend, but it just kept slipping away."

The seller listens, their expression unreadable. 

"The pressure kept rising until... until my eardrum gave out." They wince, instinctively touching their ear again. "I lost my balance, started tumbling. But you... you caught me."

The fragrance seller nods, offering no words of comfort, only a brief, understanding glance. There is no need for consolation here, not in a place like this. Elevation is a brutal, unforgiving process. Most don’t survive it without scars—if they survive at all.

In the distance, beyond the walls of the resting chamber, the tardigrades continue their endless dance, a silent storm against the void. And they wonder, briefly, if this is what it means to be elevated: not to rise above, but to fall and be caught, again and again, in the gravity of the cosmos.

They close their eyes and wait, unsure if they'll ever try again.

A sudden, sharp pain shoots through their ears. The pressure. It’s too much. They tilt their head, trying to relieve it, but it only worsens, a burning sensation that spirals into a high-pitched whine. They fumble, trying to grasp the porcelain-like cylinder in the cyst, but their fingers slip, vision narrowing as the mask restricts their movements. The room seems to twist, the edges of reality fraying.

Just as the pain reaches an unbearable crescendo, the right eardrum bursts. The sound is like glass shattering inside their skull. There’s a squeal, piercing and unnatural, and then—silence. The world tilts sideways as they lose equilibrium, their body lurching into a slow, uncontrolled tumble.

And then the fragrance seller from Bhopal catches them.

Their hand is warm, steady, a surprising anchor in the chaos. Through the haze, they see those calm, discerning eyes staring into their own, questioning. The seller’s grip tightens, pulling them closer, but they can barely process what’s happening. Nausea swells, and they lift a trembling hand to their ear, pointing to the blood trickling down the side of their face.

The seller’s eyes widen slightly, but they say nothing. Instead, they tilt their head, gesturing upward with a single motion. A signal. It’s time to stop the elevation.

The room shudders to a halt, the silver sands beneath them still as stone. The pressure fades, replaced by an overwhelming, hollow ache. They descend back to the ground, the porcelain cylinder slipping from their grasp, clattering against the cold, metallic floor of the cyst.

A faint scent of sandalwood lingers in the stale air as they adjust their mask, waiting in silence for the elevation to begin. Their fingers brush the smooth surface of the porcelain cylinder embedded in the cyst. A lifeline, or so they’ve been told.

The elevation center is renowned, coveted by those seeking transcendence—an escape from the decaying worlds left behind. The universe’s best elevation site, they say, though it feels more like a tomb. 

Thousands of tardigrades drift by, swirling in a dark, cosmic tornado that blots out the distant sun, casting long shadows over the facility. Their translucent bodies shimmer as they circle the site, a reminder that even the smallest creatures here defy the laws of survival. But nothing seems natural anymore.

The fragrance seller from Bhopal hovers beside them, adjusting their own mask, a slender figure in a simple white robe that flows like water. Beneath the veil of their rebreather, their eyes dart to the control panel, where the elevation process is initiated. A quick flick of the wrist, and the room hums to life.

They feel the tug immediately, as if gravity itself has decided to play tricks, pulling and pushing at them in waves. The porcelain cylinder in the cyst glows softly, signaling that the process has begun, but something feels off. They aren't rising.

At first, there’s only a dull pressure in their chest, a weight that builds slowly, like the feeling of sinking into quicksand. They squeeze the cylinder harder, willing it to pull them upward, but the pressure keeps mounting. Their breath comes in shallow, labored gasps, muffled by the mask. It feels as though the room is compressing, folding in on itself.

In the flickering light of a repurposed basement, a self-proclaimed techno-shaman artist stands victorious. Their latest masterpiece, "Ephemeral Echoes," is finally complete. It's a peculiar art installation that defies logic, reason, and most importantly, any expectation of it making money. 

The artist, whose long beard and unruly hair make them look more like a mad scientist than an artist, rummaged through countless garage sales to find the star of their show—a vintage rotary phone. Not just any rotary phone, mind you, but one that creaks, groans, and coughs like it's haunted by a century of misplaced calls. It’s perfect. 

The phone now sits proudly on an old wooden pedestal, its cracked, yellowed surface glowing faintly under the ethereal lighting the artist has painstakingly set up. The lights flicker just enough to make you question whether your eyes are playing tricks or if the phone is indeed alive, whispering ancient secrets from some long-forgotten realm.

As the audience gathers—a ragtag group of hipsters, curious neighbors, and one bewildered cat—the artist takes a deep breath and flicks the switch. The vintage phone wheezes to life, its rotary dial spinning slowly as if the ghosts of past callers are dialing out to the cosmos.

On the small screen, where once resided nothing more than a frayed, static-filled void, minimalist animations begin to dance. The Tengric symbols, plucked straight from the annals of ancient Central Asian folklore, twist and twirl in monochrome splendor. The artist has somehow managed to make the symbols both majestic and mildly sarcastic—no small feat for something as old as the hills. A wolf prances across the screen with a jaunty swagger, while a falcon soars, doing loop-de-loops as if it’s had one too many energy drinks.