I woke suspended in blackness, weightless, as though floating in space. No lantern. No shelves. Only the soft hiss of air circulating around me—mechanical, cold, unending.
Then, the shape appeared. The Hollow Astronaut. Its void-helmet turned toward me, reflecting nothing, yet somehow I felt it seeing me. The gears inside its chest spun silently, and faintly, a light pulsed—heartbeat-like—drawing me in.
I tried to move, but my body didn't obey. My limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. My own reflection had been left behind in the shards of the Glass Mother. Here, I was… hollow.
From the darkness, a voice—my own?—echoed:"Remember why you came."
I clenched my fists. Fragments of memory surged: the Archive, the Files, the Glass Mother, the children. And the lantern, flickering, desperately holding back the shadows.
The Hollow Astronaut extended a hand—or what looked like a hand—and a projection appeared above its palm. Stars, planets, voids, and between them, a small figure floating: a child, laughing, reaching toward something unseen.
Then the figure shattered, scattering like the Mirror Mother's shards. My heart raced.
The Astronaut's hiss grew louder. Words formed in the air, glowing faintly:
"To escape, you must become hollow. To survive, you must remember. To remember… you must surrender."
I realized it wasn't just a figure—it was a trial. A reflection of everything I had seen, everything I had feared. The Glass Mother, the children, the pages of the Files—they were all tied to this place.
Suddenly, the stars collapsed inward, forming a tunnel of fractured light. I could hear the faint metallic grinding of the Astronaut following me, step by impossible step.
I swam through the tunnel, limbs moving instinctively. Every fragment of fear, every memory of shards and whispers, propelled me forward. A distant light glimmered at the end—a pale green, almost alive.
And then I saw it: a floating File. Its cover shimmered with frost and smoke.
File VII: The Clockwork Key.
The words pulsed like a heartbeat. I reached for it—and for the first time, I felt my body obey completely. I touched the cover. A shock ran through me, not painful, but awakening. Memories, images, and knowledge cascaded into my mind.
The Astronaut stopped. Its void-helmet tilted, as though surprised. And in the sudden silence, I heard the faintest whisper, both human and machine:
"Do you remember… or will you forget?"
I knew then that the choice wasn't just about escaping. It was about becoming something else—or remaining who I was.
The File opened. The next path revealed itself.
And I stepped forward.