[Rin]
The corridor stopped pretending to be endless.
It narrowed, subtly, with each step she took — not enough to trap her, just enough to let her know: something knew she was here. She kept walking, the memory box against her chest like a second heartbeat. It was heavier now.
The door on her left was slightly ajar, unmarked like the rest. But the silence behind it felt personal.
She stepped in.
A desk. A single lamp, its light flickering as if uncertain it should stay on. And on the floor, one page. No dust. No sound.
She reached down, and as her hand neared it, the paper reacted.
"You were overwritten. But you survived the deletion."
She flinched.
Not at the words — at the fact that they felt... kind. Like an apology from someone who couldn't afford to show their face.
The box clicked. Just a sliver open.
No contents visible — but a scent escaped.
Not blood.
Not burning.
Ink.
And for a moment, she was ten again, writing stories no one read, but needing to write them anyway. She looked up sharply, as if someone else had entered the room.
No one had.
But she wasn't alone.
[Aro, Selene, Iris, Alin]
The stairs went from stone to silence.
At first, they'd been climbing what looked like a ruined watchtower. But here, higher up, the walls turned smooth and semi-transparent. The floor began responding — ever so slightly — to their steps. No words. Just flickers.
The panels didn't reflect what was in front of them.
They showed variations — not memory, but missed possibilities.
Selene stopped.
In the glass beside her, she saw herself kneeling beside a man with familiar eyes. Her hands were bleeding, but she looked relieved.
"Did you see that?" she asked.
The others turned, but in their view, the panel showed only shadow.
"It was him," she murmured. "The one I wasn't supposed to remember."
Aro placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then remember him anyway."
Behind them, Alin touched a panel — but hers didn't show anything at all. It shimmered faintly, rejecting her presence.
"I don't think I was written to remember," she said quietly.
Iris turned. "That doesn't mean you weren't meant to."
The corridor opened again.
They walked, slower now. More cautious. Not because of danger — because the place wanted them to remember. And none of them were sure they wanted to.
[Rin]
The screen on the far wall turned on — not with static, but recognition.
Her own face stared back.
But younger. Softer. Eyes that hadn't yet learned to flinch when people said "unnecessary character."
The voice from the screen was not mechanical. It was raw. Her own.
"You left me here."
Rin's throat caught. "I didn't know you were still running."
"You promised you'd finish writing me."
"I got scared."
The screen flickered.
"You weren't scared," the voice replied. "You rewrote yourself to be less like me."
The ink on the screen began to leak — running in long threads across the floor. But the floor didn't absorb it.
The box in her hands shut itself again, like it had heard enough.
Then the screen blinked once more, and a new message appeared:
"They're waking up."
[Aro's Group]
They reached the top chamber.
Seven chairs. All waiting. Each faced inward. The walls were clean — too clean — as if waiting to be remembered before they filled in.
Aro approached one. His name was etched into the back.
Selene, Iris, Alin — their names were there too.
The other three?
Unwritten. Smudged. One of them looked like it had been wiped clean deliberately, not by time.
Selene's fingers hovered over her name.
She didn't sit.
She said, "Do you think this is a trap?"
"No," Aro replied. "I think it's worse. I think it's an invitation."
Before anyone could respond, the walls pulsed. A low vibration ran beneath their feet. Somewhere in the tower, a door was opening.
Not by their choice.
But because someone else had made theirs.
[Weaver]
He watched the two dots move across the old schematic.
Each one — Rin, and the group — was headed toward a common axis.
He hadn't seen convergence like this since before the collapse protocol was activated.
Behind him, the technician was gone. The room was too quiet now.
He whispered aloud — not to her, not to the council, but to something older than them all:
"They weren't supposed to find each other."
And then, more quietly:
"But maybe… they were supposed to remember they could."