The vision shattered without warning.
Light folded inward, collapsing like broken glass pulled into a single point. I gasped as my feet slammed back onto solid ground. The chamber returned—not the swirling void, not the golden threads—but the cold, circular room of black stone. The pedestal stood before me, empty. The crystal orb was gone.
Only the pearl remained in my hand.
It felt heavier now.
Not physically—but like it carried memory. Weight. Responsibility.
I staggered backward, my breath uneven. The tower no longer hummed softly as before. Instead, a low, irregular pulse throbbed through the walls, like a heartbeat that wasn't quite healthy. The silver veins embedded in the stone flickered dimly, as if the tower itself were exhausted… or wounded.
"What did you show me…?" I whispered.
No answer came.
But something had changed.
I could feel it in my skin—in the air pressing against my lungs. The tower no longer felt neutral. It felt aware of me.
And not pleased.
A sharp crack echoed overhead.
I looked up just in time to see a fracture spider across the ceiling mirror. Thin at first, then spreading rapidly, branching like lightning frozen mid-strike. Reflections bled through the cracks—faces, streets, rain-soaked alleys, unfamiliar rooms.
Too many.
"Wait—" I took a step back.
The floor tilted.
Not physically—but perceptually. My balance shifted as if gravity had briefly forgotten which way was down. The pearl flared in my palm, burning hot enough that I almost dropped it.
Then—
A door appeared.
It hadn't been there before.
It stood against the far wall where only black stone had existed moments ago: tall, narrow, and made of dull, matte metal that swallowed light rather than reflecting it. No handle. No markings.
Except one.
A shallow engraving near its center.
Three vertical lines, intersected by a curved slash.
I didn't recognize the symbol.
But my body did.
My heart raced violently, and a wave of nausea rolled through me. The pearl pulsed hard—once, twice—like a warning.
Do not.
That was the feeling.
Not a voice. Not words.
Just instinct.
I backed away slowly. "I'm not going in there," I said aloud, my voice echoing too loudly in the chamber. "I didn't choose this door."
The tower responded.
The other exits—corridors of mirrors, golden-lit paths—began to seal themselves. Stone slid over reflective surfaces with a grinding scream. Light dimmed rapidly, as if the tower were closing its eyes.
Leaving only the door.
"No," I whispered. "That's not fair."
The pearl grew colder.
For the first time since I had found it.
A sharp knock sounded.
From the other side of the door.
My breath stopped.
Knock.
Knock.
The sound was slow. Deliberate. Patient.
"You don't have to open it," a voice said quietly behind me.
I spun around.
He stood there as if he had always belonged to the chamber—leaning casually against a sealed mirror, coat dark, expression unreadable. The man from the rain. From the house. From the reflections.
"You—" My voice shook. "How did you get here?"
He glanced at the door, then back at me. "That question has too many answers."
Another knock echoed through the chamber.
This one stronger.
"You shouldn't be here," I said. "You said you couldn't interfere."
"I can't," he replied calmly. "But I can watch."
Anger surged through my fear. "Then watch this—because I'm not opening it."
His gaze softened, just slightly. "That door doesn't exist for refusal."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he said quietly, "that something inside the tower recognizes you as unfinished."
The pearl trembled violently.
The engraving on the door began to glow faintly—not gold, but a dull, bruised silver. The temperature in the room dropped sharply. My breath fogged.
"What's behind it?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. Careful. "A version of the truth that doesn't care whether you're ready."
The knocking stopped.
Silence fell—thick, expectant.
Then a new sound replaced it.
Scraping.
As if something were dragging its fingers slowly down the inside of the door.
The pearl burned again, this time painfully. Images flickered behind my eyes—rain falling upward, mirrors bleeding shadow, a younger version of myself standing still while something whispered behind her.
"I didn't agree to this," I said, tears stinging my eyes.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell rain on his coat—impossible, here. "You agreed a long time ago," he said softly. "You just don't remember signing the bargain."
The door began to open on its own.
Just a crack.
Darkness seeped through—not absence of light, but something thicker. Alive.
I clenched the pearl with both hands.
Whatever waited beyond that door—
It knew my name.
And it had been waiting far longer than I had been lost.