One curtain kept Israel out of the Most Holy Place for fifteen centuries. At the moment Jesus died, it tore — from the top down, because God did the tearing.
The Shadow
Of all the furniture of the tabernacle, the veil had the simplest job: it said no. A woven divider between the holy place and the Most Holy, embroidered with cherubim — the same figures posted at the gate of Eden with a flaming sword. The message was consistent from the garden onward: the presence of God is here, and you cannot come in. One man, once a year, with blood, and never casually. For fifteen centuries the veil hung there, guarding the mercy seat, preaching every day that the way into the Holiest was not yet open.
The Fulfillment
Mark records the moment the sermon ended. Jesus cried out with a loud voice and breathed His last, and the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The direction is the theology. A tear from the bottom would be a human breach, and humans had no standing to make it. From the top means God took the veil in His own hands, at the moment His Son's body was torn, and opened His house.
Hebrews makes the identification outright: we have boldness to enter the Holiest by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way He consecrated for us, through the veil — that is, His flesh. The curtain was a picture of His body all along. It kept the presence sealed until the Body was torn, and then nothing was sealed anymore. The cherubim came off duty. The flaming sword found its mark in Him instead of you.
Him All Along
No one has stitched the veil back up. There is no anteroom where you wait until your week has been good enough, no once-a-year appointment, no rank of holier people standing between you and God. The way in was opened from His side, at His cost, by His hands. You are not asking to enter. You have been welcomed into the Holiest, and the door He tore open does not close.