The maze stretched endlessly in all directions. Golden corridors lined with portraits showing worst moments on endless repeat.
The air tasted metallic here—not blood, but something older. Like the inside of a locked chest that hadn't been opened in centuries. The gold of the walls wasn't quite solid; it rippled occasionally, like liquid metal frozen mid-flow, catching light that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.
I chose a path. Any path. Because standing still meant watching the same failures loop forever from where we stood.
The corridor I entered was narrower than it appeared. The portraits on both sides pressed close. The images showing my mother. Different moments. Different days. All leading to the same end.
Her death.
