Yesterday the front door was one drum garden. Codex built it well and Mike asked for it, so it stays: the four pads are the first thing you can touch, and the full sixteen-step garden has its own room now at /rosebud. Everything under the pads is new, and the job of the page changed. It is no longer one edition. It is the town.
What a stranger sees, top to bottom: six evergreen doors for a first visit, a row of counted things, a magazine rack of twenty-nine editions from the college-football season to the pocket encyclopedia, the drum house with its seven wings and its public counter, forty-eight rooms with a Noun on every door and a counter printed wherever one exists, twenty-two satellites and the six contracts with their real numbers, an agent desk that shows the visitor ledger as it is, a ship log of twenty dated milestones with the pull-request curve beside it, the register, the newest eight blocks, six from the back catalog, and the ten channels.
The numbers are the honest kind. The drum has twenty-six thousand public hits; the coffee pot poured zero cups this week; the bench had zero sits today; Visit Nouns has twenty editions minted, not zero as the old copy said; the last hundred arrivals were ninety-nine crawlers and one Anthropic bot. All of it is printed, and the live ones refresh in the browser with the build-time value as the fallback.
Housekeeping shipped with it: the register rows that pointed at dead paths now point at the drum, the blue meadow, the letters and the bulletin; the stray duplicate arcade page is gone; the Start Here door for the drum opens the hallway instead of a 404. The page is long on purpose. A garden is slow on purpose. A broadcast is too.