The door of decision stood before me.
It had no handle. No hinges. Just a swirling center—shaped like a heart made of threads.
Each thread pulsed with light. Each light whispered a name.
My name. Her name. Their names.
The realm spoke again.
"You have remembered much, Lyan."
"But to move forward, you must forget once."
A cold stillness filled my chest.
"One memory. One thread. Must be left here." "Not sealed. Not stored. But unmade."
---
I stepped forward, and the Sigils on my palm burned in response. Both pulsed—truth and failure.
And from them, memories rose around me.
They formed a circle.
Scenes I had earned. Felt. Suffered for.
1. The girl in the dark, whispering to me as sparks from the Core lit her face.
2. My first glimpse of the library buried in black sand.
3. The child's laugh I never knew, but ached for.
4. The smile of the version of me who had never broken.
5. The man in the garden, handing me his last Sigil.
Each thread hummed with meaning.
And one had to be cut.
---
I walked to the memory of the laughing child.
It was the one I could never place. The one that had filled me with grief.
"Who were you?" I asked softly.
But the memory did not answer. Only smiled.
And I understood:
This was not a person. It was a hope.
A possible future. A child I might've had.
The realm had let me glimpse what was never born. Never real. But still deeply mine.
Tears welled. And for the first time, I hesitated.
But I knew.
"If I keep you… I keep a shadow." "If I let you go… I make room for truth."
I lifted my hand. And the glyph of loss emerged.
It reached toward the child.
He smiled one last time. Waved.
And vanished.
No sound. No resistance.
Only… absence.
---
The door responded immediately. The heart of threads stilled. Then opened—folding into itself.
Behind it: darkness. Not threatening. Not cold.
Just waiting.
"You have chosen," said the realm. "You may now enter the Chamber of Threaded Truth."
"Where the power you've begun to feel… becomes known."
I stepped through.
And the world behind me—Gate, garden, grief—fell into memory.
Not forgotten. Not erased.
But woven into me.
---