The classroom dissolved.
Or perhaps it had never existed.
Now they were in a forest.
Black trees. White leaves.
Each branch moved as if breathing.
Alexis looked around, her voice trembling:
> "Where are we?"
> "Inside the curriculum," said the teacher with her face.
"Lesson two: You are not the original."
The sky blinked.
Roots erupted from the ground and hovered in the air—
searching.
> "Each of you is a graft," the teacher whispered.
"Memories spliced from others.
Skills grown like vines.
Your identities were assembled, not born."
Amelia clutched her head.
She saw flashes of lives—
dozens of them—
all using her name.
One Amelia who could speak to shadows.
One who burned mirrors with her gaze.
One who vanished every time she slept.
None of them were her.