The door opened on its own.
This time, neither Amelia nor Alexis hesitated.
They stepped into a place that wasn't a room—
but a vein, pulsing with light and shadow.
Organic walls curved like ribs. The ground pulsed.
And overhead, spiral constellations shifted in a black sky.
> "This is inside the spiral," Alexis murmured.
Amelia nodded.
> "No—this is the seed.
The place they grew us from."
Shapes moved in the distance. Tall, root-like beings.
Some were whispering names. Some were screaming.
The air grew thick.
Amelia's chest burned—
not from fear,
but from memory.
She fell to her knees.
Visions flooded her:
A crib buried under soil.
A nurse sewing dreams into a child's skull.
Alexis, younger, floating in a tank of black water.
> "We were never meant to live outside this place," Amelia gasped.
Alexis helped her up, tears streaking her face.
> "But we did. And that's why they're afraid."
From the ceiling descended something vast—
not a creature,
not a machine,
but a presence in spiral form.
It spoke with no voice, but the words filled their minds:
> "Return. You are of us.
You were grown for the end.
And the end begins again."
Amelia stepped forward.
> "No. We don't return.
We remember.
And that's what makes us human."
The spiral shuddered. Cracks split across the floor.
Light spilled through.
Alexis grabbed her hand.
They ran—through memory, through illusion, through the seed itself.
And the door behind them sealed shut.