The air thickened, pressing against Anaya's lungs. Each breath tasted like dust and rain and something older—loneliness left behind in forgotten places.
Ishika walked slowly around her, footsteps making no sound.
"When they locked me here, I thought it was a joke," Ishika said.
"They laughed. They ran. They said someone would come back."
Images bled into the darkness.
Anaya saw a younger Ishika banging on the walls, crying, her voice bouncing endlessly through a hallway that refused to end.
"I walked for hours," Ishika continued.
"The lights moved away from me. The doors changed places. The building started listening."
Anaya watched Ishika's hands shake.
"At first it only echoed my voice," Ishika whispered.
"Then it learned my fear. Then my thoughts. Then my name."
The vision shifted.
Ishika collapsed, scratching at walls that felt warm, breathing, alive. Her blood soaked into the paint.
"The corridor didn't kill me," Ishika said softly.
"It kept me. Because loneliness is a seed. And buildings grow from it."
Anaya felt tears fall.
"You became its heart," she whispered.
Ishika nodded.
"And every heart needs someone to remember it."
The names around them trembled.
Kavya's name flickered brighter for a second, like it wanted to answer.
Anaya reached toward it, but the air resisted her fingers.
"You can't pull them out," Ishika said gently.
"They are part of the memory now."
Anaya shook her head.
"There has to be a way."
Ishika looked at her for a long time.
"There is," she said.
"But it costs a future."