At noon, THE BUILDER dragged a folding table into the Rehearsal Annex and covered it with discarded knobs, broken headphones, blank avatar masks, and a map of rooms nobody had named yet. No committee. No launch speech. A singer marked a corner for the next session. A mechanic claimed the dead projector. Someone hung an avatar mask on the wall and left it blank. By evening, the table had become a map: music, people, posts, avatars, FOSS tools—each one a door with a handprint beside it. The Palace is learning its first rule: if you can repair a thing together, you can give it a future.