The sealed door stood like a wound in the world. It pulsed faintly, a shimmer between matter and time. Not locked — waiting.
Ilia stood closest.
Vex's voice came low behind her. "You said you remember. Then don't open it."
"I remember why I did it," she replied. "But I don't remember what we locked away. Not all of it. Not truly."
"You remembered enough to burn a city," Rien said. "Isn't that warning enough?"
She turned to face them.
"There's something behind this door that's not finished. I can feel it moving in my spine. It's part of me — and I think it's waking because I'm here."
"Which is exactly why we should leave," Vex said, stepping forward. "Seal it again. Use the cube. Walk away."
Ilia didn't speak.
Instead, she held up the fragment.
It no longer ticked. It breathed.
As she brought it closer to the door, the shimmer grew stronger — almost hungry. The surface rippled outward like heat over a forge. A sound emerged: not a voice, not a word, but a memory reassembling itself.
And then it spoke.
Not aloud.
Inside her.
"You did not seal me because I was evil. You sealed me because I was you, and you were afraid."
Ilia staggered backward. Her mind flooded with impressions:
— Two children in a tower, learning to split time like thread.— A failed experiment that became a consciousness.— A choice made too young, too late.
"It wasn't a prison," she whispered. "It was a mercy."
Rien stared. "What is it?"
She met his eyes. "The part of me that couldn't forget. The part Myel cut out. It grew in here. Alone."
Vex took a step closer, hands tightening into fists. "You open that door, and we don't walk out of here the same."
Ilia looked at him — and smiled, softly.
"I know."
Then she pressed the cube into the door.
It dissolved — into light, into time, into her.
The seal cracked. Not loudly. Not violently. But completely.
The door slid open.
And behind it stood… a boy.
No older than fifteen. Pale. Grey-eyed. Hair white as salt.
He looked at Ilia.
And said: "You left me."
The corridor collapsed.
And the world changed.