The earth split open beneath Asto's feet, the forest howling with a sound like bones being crushed in a thousand jaws. He stumbled backward as blood-red light poured from the crack, and the sky above — if it was a sky — twisted into something living, throbbing, watching.
From the broken ground rose the Hollow Kind.
Its limbs were jagged bone and twitching sinew, its jaw cracked open like a dislocated scream. Red strings veined its body like parasites, pulsing. It didn't walk. It dragged. As if each step scraped the weight of every soul it had devoured.
And in front of it… stood Echo.
The boy didn't run.
He just stood there — pale, trembling, eyes glassy. The red thread trailing from his wrist coiled around his feet like a leash.
Asto's body locked up. His throat burned. "Echo!" he roared, voice raw and trembling. "Run to me!"
The boy turned.
His face...
It was Echo's. But wrong.
His eyes were too wide. Lips slightly parted, stitched just enough to strain speech. Blood oozed at the corners of his mouth like something inside had tried to claw its way out.
Asto's legs moved on instinct. He lunged forward.
But the ground betrayed him.
The Spiral ripped open with a sickening groan and swallowed him whole.
He fell — not through air, but through memory, through guilt, through every second he didn't hold his son tight enough.
When he hit the ground, it was with the weight of all of it — every loss, every scream.
He lay there, gasping, trembling, fists digging into the soft earth.
Then the silence hit.
No Spiral.
No forest.
Just… home.
He was in the house.
Their house.
The scent of baked bread and old flowers drifted through the air. Photos hung crooked on the walls. Echo's tiny shoes were by the door. The kind of detail your brain forgets until you're haunted by it.
"Asto?" a voice called sweetly from the kitchen.
His breath caught. He turned.
Laura stood there — apron tied neatly, her long dark hair tucked behind one ear. She smiled at him, warm, perfect.
But her eyes didn't blink.
He stepped forward, slowly. "Laura…"
She nodded. "Dinner's ready."
Her lips moved late. Her voice echoed twice. A puppet with breath.
Asto's fingers twitched.
"I'm dreaming," he said softly. "No. No, I'm not—this isn't—"
He turned toward the table.
And there was Echo.
His head down. Hands resting neatly in his lap. Skin too pale. Lips sewn shut.
His small body shook like he was sobbing, but no sound came.
The plate in front of him was full of ash.
Asto's knees buckled. He reached out. "Echo—Echo, look at me—"
But red threads exploded from the boy's chest like spears and wrapped around Asto's arm, yanking him forward. He cried out as they burned into his flesh, slicing open old wounds that had never healed right.
Laura didn't move.
She just watched.
Smiling.
"You let him go," she whispered, eyes finally blinking — but they blinked sideways, inhuman.
Asto writhed in the grip of the threads. His other hand reached toward the boy, blood running down his arm. "I never let him go! I came back—I've always been coming back!"
"He waited," Laura said softly. Her smile deepened, too wide for her face. "And you left. Again."
"I didn't—!"
"Again."
Asto screamed. Rage and guilt, mixing. His face twisted in fury. Teeth bared. But behind it all… the collapse.
He was losing him again.
The room flickered.
The walls bled.
Then—another voice.
Soft. Cold.
"You failed me twice."
Asto froze.
The woman.
The one in white.
She stepped out of the shadows, her expression unreadable. Her hands folded in front of her like a funeral mourner.
But she didn't reach for him.
She walked to Echo.
And held his hand.
Asto's breath shattered in his chest. "No…"
"You believed in me," he whispered, voice cracking. "You helped me—"
She looked down at the boy.
"I never said who I was helping."
"Please," he choked. "Don't do this. He's not—he's not that thing. He's my son."
She raised her eyes to him.
And for the first time, her mask cracked.
Sadness.
Regret.
But also… pity.
"You're not ready to see what he's become."
"No—NO!" Asto screamed, jerking against the threads, his body buckling under their weight. "I'll find him—I'll bring him back!"
But Laura was behind him now.
Her voice like glass underfoot.
"Bring who back?"
He turned.
And his son — the one at the table — was gone.
In his place stood the Hollow Kind.
Wearing Echo's skin.
Its eyes opened.
And they were empty.
Asto screamed as the world fractured.
The walls twisted. Light bled through the cracks. His scream echoed through every room, but it was swallowed by the Spiral.
Then, silence.
Just silence.
And one whisper—
from Echo's voice…
but not his soul:
"You were too late again, Father."
It lived inside everyone.
Some passed through it briefly — during a nightmare, a grief too heavy to name, a memory that shouldn't have returned but did. Others built homes inside it without ever realizing. Smiles on their faces, jobs, families, routines… all while quietly sinking deeper into the loops of their own forgotten pain.
The Spiral wasn't a punishment. It was memory without mercy. It showed you what you buried — and then asked you to live with it.
Asto had entered it because he wanted to remember.
But he stayed because he couldn't decide what was real.
Every twist in the trees, every door that led to his son or wife or self — it wasn't the forest. It wasn't magic. It was him. His doubt. His guilt. His need to rewrite what he could never fix.
And he was no match for it.
Not until he remembered what mattered most.
Because that was the rule of the Spiral.
If you forget who you are, it keeps you.
If you try to run, it becomes you.
And worst of all—no one ever really knows they've entered it.
Meanwhile Asto frowned. The skin between his brows creased hard, his face tight with confusion. It had been night—he remembered the cold, the black air, the silence. But now? The sky above burned with a pale gold light that made his skin crawl. It wasn't sunlight. It felt like something pretending to be light. Something sick. And across from him, the woman who once guided him, who once saved him, stood still and strange beside the Echo.
His breath hitched.
The sun twitched. Shadows shifted unnaturally across the cracked ground. Then—something yanked his leg.
He stumbled with a sharp gasp. His eyes snapped downward. A hand—no, not a hand—something made of shadow and smoke had wrapped around his ankle, its fingers slow and curling like ink in water. Cold shot through his leg. He snarled and stepped back.
Too late.
Another one, darker, colder, lunged out and grabbed his other leg. The temperature sank. His bones locked up. Breath caught in his chest.
He froze.
Panic stabbed into his spine. His breathing turned shallow, ragged. The ground beneath him groaned. Red-black cracks veined out like lightning under his feet. His knees buckled, but the shadow hands held him upright like meat on display.
He looked at her—the woman. She didn't blink. Didn't move.
He turned to the Echo. His son's face stared back, lifeless. Hollow. Watching.
His jaw tightened until it hurt. His lips parted.
"I'm tired," he said hoarsely. "Can't I just die in peace? Or disappear? Or be killed?" His voice cracked, soaked in rage. "Just don't mess with my head. Not with his face."
The wind answered with a hiss.
His head jerked toward the trees.
They were looking back.
Faces pressed out from bark, bloated and bleeding. Eyes like black coins. Mouths wide and smiling. Trees shouldn't have expressions. But these did. They were breathing. Grinning.
Even the sun felt like it was laughing now. Its heat scratched at his skin, light like sandpaper scraping over flesh.
He turned again. The woman and the Echo were still there. Then, the Echo moved. Its puppet body rushed toward him with arms extended. Something snapped inside Asto. His fists clenched. Shoulders locked. His nostrils flared as he braced.
Let them come. Maybe they'd finish it.
They reached him. Arms pulled him. And then—crack.
The sound was sharp and deep and sickening. His knees collapsed. Something inside his chest gave way. A pain like fire shot through his ribs and down his spine. His scream was low and short. And then he fell.
Not into the ground.
Into the dream.
Into her.
Laura.
She stood barefoot on the old mat, her eyes bright, her arms open. That smile. Gentle. Fragile. Alive. His knees wobbled as he ran into her, burying himself in the warmth of her chest like a dying child.
She wrapped him up. He couldn't breathe through the sob pressing in his throat.
They sat close. Her fingers traced the curve of his jaw. "Have you been okay?" she asked softly. Her lips touched his forehead.
"I missed you," he whispered. "So much I can't even breathe."
But the house was already starting to change.
The flowers near the window withered. Their colors twisted into a rotting red. Petals fell, melted, curled into sharp black threads. The floor groaned. Threads moved—alive—snaking toward them.
Then came the creatures.
They rose from the thread roots—small, wrong things. Some had heads but no mouths. Others were just jaws, snapping, twitching. And one towered above them all, its limbs too long, its eyes shining a cold, dual glow—blue and red like twin moons in a black sky.
It laughed.
Not with sound. But with presence.
A voice rang through Asto's skull, echoing with cruel delight.
"Foolish."
He flinched. His stomach twisted. Laura didn't seem to hear it. She smiled still, cupping his face, calm and unshaken.
But the voice didn't stop.
"Shall we end him? His soul is in front of me."
A blade appeared. Thin, curved. The same red-blue gleam. It floated above his heart like a judge's sentence.
Asto laughed.
A harsh, guttural sound. It rose from his gut, from somewhere sick and breaking. He laughed so hard his chest heaved. He started choking. His eyes welled. Blood trickled at the edge of his lips.
"Even in my damn dreams," he coughed. "Even here, I'm cursed. I don't own my body anymore. Not even my bones."
"Just do it!" he screamed. "Whatever it is—kill me! Finish it!"
Laura's eyes filled with tears. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why are you hurting yourself?"
He didn't answer at first. He just smiled bitterly.
"Hey, wifey," he murmured. "You still cry like a baby. Just like that day at the mall."
His eyes softened. They glistened.
"You lost your handbag, remember?"
She nodded, crying harder.
"I'd lose a thousand handbags. Ten million. But not you. I'd never lose you, Laura."
His voice cracked. His strength broke.
He fell into her lap, sobbing.
She held him, gently rocking him like a mother would a child.
"Asto," she whispered. "Please. Go back. They need you."
He looked up, tears lining his cheeks.
"I'll wait," she said. "Always."
And then she was gone.
She dissolved like smoke in wind.
The creatures remained.
They didn't chase. Didn't threaten.
The tallest one opened its arms.
Asto stepped forward.
No words.
No fight.
He surrendered.
Then he hit the road.
Concrete. Cold. Jagged.
The pain was immediate and white-hot. He screamed—a deep, raw cry that bounced off nothing. His vision broke into stars. He couldn't feel his back. Couldn't feel his ribs. He thought he was broken in half.
But then it started.
The threads.
They crawled into him—inside his arms, his neck, his legs. Living things. Healing things. Stitching him back together.
"Don't worry, Asto," a voice whispered, almost childlike. "No meat will fall off. We're putting it all back."
He groaned, turning his head. He wanted to close his eyes.
"Laura," he whispered, barely able to move his mouth. "Wait a little longer."
He folded his arms, eyes heavy, tears drying against his temples.
"Yes… I'll wait. Take your time," he muttered to the creatures mending him.
They moved fast. Their little hands worked with focus, weaving his wounds closed like sewing cloth. But when he tried to rise again, his legs buckled.
He dropped.
Too much blood. Too much taken.
They weren't done cleansing it. Not yet.
Not yet.
The pain quieted—but the cold didn't.
Asto lay motionless, arms limp at his sides, breaths shallow and steaming against the broken soil. The threads had stopped sewing. His body was back together, but it wasn't whole. Something inside him still felt torn. Wrong.
The trees had stopped groaning. The wind had gone mute.
Silence pressed against his ears.
And then—
A breath that wasn't his fogged the air.
He turned his head slowly, every bone resisting.
From across the clearing, just beyond the reach of the Spiral's red-threaded roots, a figure stood. Watching. Still.
A young woman. Maybe twenty-four.
Beautiful in a way that didn't belong to this world—sharp edges softened by something haunted. Her skin pale, not ghostly, but too clean for this forest. Her coat was dark, brushing her calves, and her boots sank slightly in the moss, untouched by the filth. She stood at a distance, framed by crooked tree limbs that bent like ribs around her, as if the forest hadn't dared swallow her whole.
She didn't move.
Only her lips did.
"Asto," she called softly.
He flinched.
Her voice wasn't threatening. It wasn't familiar.
It was curious.
Like she already knew the answer.
"Did you hear it?" she asked. "That voice just now."
He struggled to push himself up, hands trembling, red threads still squirming under his skin. His mouth was dry. He didn't answer.
The woman tilted her head slightly. One strand of hair drifted across her cheek, caught in the windless air.
"Why do you think the Spiral called you?" she said, softer now. "Was it because of what you lost? Or because of what you've become?"
His jaw locked.
He wanted to ask who she was. He wanted to scream don't speak like you know me.
But he couldn't.
Not with her standing so still.
Not with her looking at him like that.
Then she said it:
"Did you find what you were looking for, Asto?"
A pause.
A sharp breath caught in his throat.
Because just behind her, in the black between the trees—
Someone else was standing.
Smiling.
His son's face.
But wrong.
A blink too slow. A mouth too wide. Eyes too calm.
The Spiral was watching.
And this time, it was waiting.