Marigold - A LitRPG

In a sprawling garden of ornamental horrors, a woman moved with the slow, deliberate grace of someone the world dared not deny. She carried a parasol in one gloved hand, its canopy stitched with jasmine blossoms—so sharp they could draw blood. A procession followed in her wake, each figure silent and unnatural. Her heels tapped softly against the black marble path, their echoes swallowed by the blood-red sky above.

The garden—if one dared to call it that—was a contradiction made manifest. Beauty and grotesquery intertwined. Velvet petals the color of spilled wine trembled gently, revealing slick, glistening eyeballs at their cores. Vines slithered over wrought-iron arches, their serrated edges clacking idly as she passed. Orchids unfurled into twisted faces, mouths agape in voiceless screams. The air was cloying—sweet with rot, thick like the moment before glass shatters.

As she passed beneath an arch of yellow bell-flowers veined in crimson, the blossoms chimed—fragile and eerie, like bones caught in a breeze no one could feel. She didn't pause. She never did. Let them weep. Let them scream. It made no difference.

Behind her moved the attendants, twisted parodies of human elegance. Their bodies were sculpted from soil, roots, and decaying flora, wrapped in the trappings of long-dead nobility. Silken cravats, lace-stained cuffs, embroidered waistcoats—each detail meticulously grotesque. One, taller than the rest, had a head shaped like a blooming rose, an unblinking eyeball buried in the center. It folded its hands with exaggerated poise—fingers too long, too sharp.

Others were less dignified. Thorned limbs dragged behind them. One creature of clustered lilies wept clear, metallic-scented nectar from its petals. Another bore the pale visage of a human face, embedded in the throat of a white orchid, lips frozen mid-whisper. At the rear slithered one with a Venus flytrap for a head—jaws twitching as it chewed something too dark and wet to name.

They moved like shadows—present only when summoned.

The woman wore a gown of golden silk, crusted with gemstones that shimmered in the low crimson light. A single black root twisted through her snow-white hair, coiled into an elegant pin. Her skin was flawless porcelain, untouched by time. But her eyes—bright honey and too sharp—missed nothing. She was beautiful the way venom is: alluring, but fatal.

Without warning, she stopped. The air shifted. A faint crackle tore through the stillness—wrong, subtle. Her gaze lifted, narrowing as the sky rippled. The attendants turned with her. Something breached the veil.

A jagged white fracture split the heavens. From it fell a single object—slow, deliberate, as if the sky begrudged its release. A letter, sealed in crimson wax. It drifted down, dancing in the air until it landed softly at her feet.

A hiss swept through the garden—restless and low. The attendants stirred, mouths twitching open with inhuman sounds. Something was... off.

The rose-headed attendant moved first. It knelt and retrieved the letter with eerie precision. Behind it, the Venus flytrap creature emerged, cradling a silver tray. A glint of steel shimmered between its teeth. With slow, ceremonial grace, the letter was placed upon the tray—centered with exactness, as if the universe depended on it.

The creature bowed low and extended the offering. A lid clicked into place with chilling finality.

She watched, unreadable. Only when the tray was raised did she extend her hand. Her fingers—delicate, pristine—brushed the wax seal. One nail grew, black as night and curved like a blade. With a practiced flick, she severed the seal. The nail shrank, the envelope opened.

Silence.

Even the garden stilled.

Her eyes scanned the letter—quick, precise. Her expression barely shifted. Until the last line. Her lips curled—not a smile, but something colder, crueler. A blade wrapped in silk.

"Oh?" Her voice was honey and hemlock. "Now they want to ally, now that she's weakened? How brave of them."

The smile deepened. Somewhere, an orchid whimpered.

"Deception. Slander. Humiliation. Chaos," came a voice—low, grating—from the root-faced attendant. "Lie. Twist. Corrupt their hearts. Break them from the inside, until they drown in the sweetness of their own delusions."

"𝒞𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹𝒾𝒸ℯ... 𝒻ℯ𝒶𝓇... 𝒹ℯ𝓈𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇..." rasped the rose-headed figure, its eye twitching toward the sky. "𝒲ℯ𝒶𝓀𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 cling when afraid. Strength needs no allies."

"Wisdom. Leadership. Control," cooed the orchid-faced one, voice polished and saccharine. "The clever never dirty their hands. Let others destroy her for us. Then we'll take everything."

"𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓃... 𝓈𝓊𝒻𝒻ℯ𝓇𝒾𝓃ℊ..." wept the lilies, a chorus of muffled cries within. "𝒲𝒽𝓎 𝓃ℴ𝓉 𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓉?"

A wet crunch echoed as the Venus flytrap creature stepped forward. A half-eaten arm dangled from its jaws.

"₵₳ⱠⱠ Ⱡł₭Ɇ ₴₩ł₳Ɽ₥₴," it snarled. "₮ⱧɆ QɄɆɆ₦ ₴₮₳₦Đ₴ ₳ⱠØ₦Ɇ. ₮ⱧɆ ฿ⱤØ₭Ɇ₦ ₴Ⱨ₳ⱤĐ₴ ₵₳₦'₮ ₴₮₳₦Đ ₳₲₳ł₦₴₮ ⱧɆⱤ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ₴ⱧɆ ₥ⱤɄ₴ⱦ ₴₮Ɽł₭Ɇ₴."

She didn't flinch. Her eyes remained on the sky, where the tear still shimmered.

Her fist clenched, crumpling the letter.

"The Main finally suppressed her, even slightly." Her voice was cool, clinical. "That's enough. One of us will soon manifest."

Her smile sharpened. "And since I'm the most active... it will be me. The others are scrambling. Fools."

She laughed—a whisper of silk over a blade. "Fragments dreaming of wholeness? Pathetic. I'll show them reality."

She opened her hand. The letter twisted into a butterfly, its wings patterned with roses and skulls. With a flick, it fluttered into the shadows.

"Confirm my presence," she ordered. "Open the door. I'll give them face."

She turned, walking away. Her parasol cast a long, cold shadow. The garden trembled. The monsters bowed.

The elegant woman moved with unwavering grace along a stone-brick road. At each corner, statuesque attendants stood frozen—constructed from twisted garden elements, their stillness more unnerving than motion. Looming ahead, a colossal double door of ancient stone dominated the path. It was intricately carved with the image of a crowned woman holding a staff, her face serene yet distant. Countless desperate hands clawed toward her form, yet none made contact. Vines bloomed with golden flowers, crawling across the stone like pulsing veins.

Two attendants—grotesque figures shaped like desert flora—grasped the massive chains affixed to the door. As the woman approached, they heaved. The doors groaned open with a bone-deep creak, revealing a darkness so dense it glistened, like spilled ink swallowing light.

Without pause, without a glance, she stepped forward and vanished into the void.

She emerged in a place that defied all logic—a chamber stitched from a thousand fractured realities. Vines tangled with power cables. Honeycombs oozed between blood-splattered visors. Nervous eyes blinked from the walls. Screens flickered with static beside axes, pistols, swords, and bows. It was as if memory, instinct, and nightmare had collided, merging into one chaotic womb.

In the center stood a massive table. Its surface was a battlefield of opposing materials—reeds crawling over bent steel, jagged marble crumbling into wax and honey. Every chair surrounding it contrasted violently with the madness—each one carved from a single, deliberate material, uniquely crafted to suit the occupant.

A woman lounged on one of them, legs propped carelessly atop the table. Her tone oozed contempt.
"The bourgeois porcelain bitch finally arrived. Great. Now we can start this shit."

She wore skin-tight leather, pierced through with silver rings. Her bleached hair, streaked with crimson, fell across amethyst eyes etched with disdain. Tattoos sprawled across her arms like living graffiti, telling stories no one dared read aloud.

"S-S-Show some respect! We're supposed to be a team!" stammered a fragile voice. Its owner cowered beneath an oversized sweatshirt, sleeves pulled over trembling hands. Her long hair obscured her eyes, and every word sounded like it fought its way out through anxiety and fear.

The rebel sneered. "I'm not wasting an hour listening to you mumble like a meek bitch. Shut it."

She slammed her fist against the table. The warped structure groaned beneath the force, a low sound like something alive, suffering. The timid girl shrank back, disappearing further into her hood.

"The shy one is technically correct," said another voice—cool, measured. "Infighting achieves nothing. It's like arguing with your own reflection: pointless. We should focus on optimizing our coordination."

She wore a sleek, futuristic bodysuit of geometric armor. Drones hovered silently around her, scanning everything with cold efficiency. Mechanical augmentations glinted from her forearms, whirring softly as she adjusted her glasses.

"God, now you're nerding out too?" the rebel groaned, flipping her the bird. "Why don't you go fuck a motherboard?"

The Futurist's expression didn't falter. "Illogical insult noted."

A low, primal growl rolled through the air. "Talk. Eat. Prey. Now."

The voice belonged to a monstrous figure curled into the shadows—a creature of insectoid limbs and jagged chitin. Her body pulsed with yellow and black patterns like warning signals. Massive wings scraped the floor behind her with twitchy anticipation.

The Victorian woman sighed, adjusting her parasol with elegant precision. "Let's get this over with. I don't enjoy leaving my garden to entertain idiocy."

"Tsk." Another voice, smooth and soaked in smoke, answered her. Its owner reclined in a throne of pink velvet. She wore opulent eastern robes, her pink curls draped over her bare shoulders. A long cigarette holder glinted between her fingers, exhaling scented smoke that coiled like serpents.

"We only summoned you because the Alter Ego demanded all major personas attend."

The name brought a momentary stillness.

The Victorian woman's gaze shifted to her chair—an exquisite piece of polished wood, entwined with blooming flowers. Her fingers brushed its carved armrest.

"The Alter Ego," she echoed. "It rarely intervenes unless... correction is required."

She smiled softly, almost wistfully.

"Fitting, isn't it? I know punishment well."

The rebel cackled. "Don't get all poetic now, doll-face. You're the reason that stuck-up puppet even needed punishment in the first place. You crack once and now you think you're wise?"

The porcelain woman didn't blink. Her voice remained silken.

"Perhaps I was broken. But what broke was illusion. I see clearly now. Perhaps... perhaps we should let the others suffer on their own for a while. Let them learn."

Her words hung heavy in the air.

"We are fragments," she continued. "Incomplete thoughts pretending to be whole. Echoes, dressed in flesh."

"No!" cried a girl in a pink polka-dot coat, tears welling in her innocent eyes. "There has to be a way for all of us to become one again! We can't just give up! We have to hope!"

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"God, spare me," groaned another voice—low, exhausted. A woman with tangled silver hair and dark circles under her purple eyes sat curled in her chair, spooning mint chocolate chip ice cream straight from the tub. "We're just projections. Emotional archetypes with delusions of grandeur."

"Depression," snapped the Victorian woman, fanning herself sharply. "Spare us your existential crisis. You'll vote with the majority anyway."

"K," the disheveled one mumbled, shoving more ice cream into her mouth.

A cold, flat voice interrupted them all.

"The Alter Ego will not be attending."

The room turned toward the speaker.

A woman sat with perfect posture in a plain wooden chair. She wore nothing ornate—just a crisp shirt tucked into fitted jeans, a brown leather belt cinching her waist. Her face was average, forgettable even, but her honey-colored eyes held no light. No emotion. Just empty calculation.

"Will the apathetic one lead the meeting again?" asked the Victorian, her voice tinged with scorn.

"It is the optimal configuration," said the Futurist. "The apathetic one lacks bias. She will weigh outcomes without emotional distortion."

The woman nodded once, mechanically.

"The meeting begins. Topic: 'Her' current status."

Silence fell. Every presence in the room stilled.

"What's there to discuss?" sneered the rebel. "The 'Main' finally kept her out. About damn time. She's no different than the human, anyway. Weak. Soft."

Her gaze snapped to the corner, where a plain woman in modern clothes huddled—curled in on herself like prey. Her wide eyes shimmered with confusion and fear. She was unarmed. Unarmored. Human in every way.

She didn't speak. She couldn't.

But they all saw her.

The ghost of what they once were.

"Leave her be," a deep voice rumbled from the back of the room. "This could happen to any of us, if we're not careful. You, more than anyone, should know that… Rebel."

The muscular woman leaned forward, her blood-red eyes glinting with irritation beneath sharply angled brows. Her black hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, emphasizing the curve of bull horns curling from her skull. Her skin was sun-kissed bronze, and every inch of her frame radiated strength—muscle stacked atop muscle, taut and honed.

Rings glinted from her ears and nose, and though her clothing was revealing, it carried a quiet restraint—designed to assert dominance without desperation. She sat in a chair forged of solid metal, its weight and density palpable even at a glance.

"If the 'Main' matures any further, you'll be next to fragment, Rebel."

"Shut up, musclehead," the Rebel snapped. "Just because you've managed to hold it together for now doesn't mean you're some kind of queen. Why don't you take your bull act and go smash your head into a tree, huh? Cow."

The strong woman's fists slammed into the table. The impact cracked its warped surface. For a moment, it seemed the whole structure might collapse—but then, from the splintered gaps, strange growths erupted: flowers, honeycomb, metal coils, and wooden tendrils surged upward, mending the damage and reshaping the table into something simultaneously beautiful and grotesque.

"Watch your mouth, brat," the strong one growled, voice low and taut with restrained fury. "I won't sit through your tantrums like that coward over there."

The Rebel stood abruptly, her lip curling into a snarl. "Oh? Then come make me, you thick-skulled whore."

The room tensed. The air itself seemed to harden.

The Rebel launched herself across the table, eyes wild with defiance. But before she could reach her target, a gust of air twisted violently through the space—foul and sudden.

A sickening splash followed. Putrid black blood exploded across the table, drenching everything in viscous, stinking fluid. The Rebel's body spasmed mid-leap, halting her advance. She landed in the slick mess with a grunt, dragging herself through it with a scowl of disgust.

"Seriously?" she hissed, her voice thick with venom. "You're gonna ruin my fun like that, you walking nightmare?"

Nearby, a pair of severed legs twitched—cleanly sliced in an instant. Yet, before horror could fully take root, the limbs began to rot, collapsing into fungal rot, moss, and withering roses. They merged with the table seamlessly, as if consumed by the room itself. And from the Rebel's severed stumps, new legs emerged—flesh and bone regrown with unnatural speed. Her boots and tights reformed around them like a spell snapping into place.

Then the air shimmered. Dozens of pearlescent flagella spiraled into view, twirling with hypnotic grace. They were attached to something unseen—something monstrous.

It descended.

Suspended above the table was a creature birthed from nightmares. Deep violet skin pulsed beneath the light. Three ruby-red eyes gleamed like cursed gems, unblinking. Four elongated arms floated weightlessly around it. It had no mouth, no nose—just those terrible eyes.

Its presence was suffocating—quiet, but oppressive. A metaphysical gravity.

"Monstrous. Thank you for handling that," the Apathetic One said coolly, her voice untouched by the chaos.

"Return to your seats. We will continue."

The monster sank back into its chair—a churning throne of slime, bone, and twitching eyes. It groaned under the weight, but the creature remained indifferent, folding its limbs with a dreadful calm.

The Rebel glared. Her jaw clenched. The monstrous entity responded in kind—its face splitting open to reveal rows upon rows of razor-like teeth. A slithering tongue lolled between them, glistening and wild. It roared, shaking the room with sheer malice.

The Rebel sneered, muttering, "Tch." But she returned to her chair with a reluctant scoff.

"We are bound to change," the Apathetic One continued, her voice unflinching. "As the 'Main' evolves emotionally, so do we. Some of us become whole. Others... fragment. That is the nature of our existence."

"But—" a gentle voice broke the silence.

A girl in denim overalls rose from her rocking chair. Her presence was a balm against the tension. Long silver hair framed her face, and thick glasses magnified eyes full of earnest concern. She radiated warmth like a hearthfire in winter.

"We can't just let the Main drift away from who we are. From what we value. We're family-oriented. Diligent. Kind. If she loses that, we all fall into darkness."

Silence settled again—uneasy, contemplative.

"I agree with Kind," another spoke up. A tanned woman wearing a kitchen apron and red bandana stirred a pot nestled on her lap. The spoon clinked gently, rhythmic and grounding.

Her chair was cushioned, carved with hearts and floral designs, radiating maternal energy.

"We may not directly control the Core, but we must uphold our values. We must remain ourselves, or we risk becoming hollow."

"Irrelevant," came a rasp like glass on stone.

In the far corner stood a figure that barely resembled a woman. Her skin was pale and veined, arms thin as winter branches. Her chest was torn open, ribs spread wide around a single, beating heart—bound in rusted chains and pierced by iron hooks.

Two wounds yawned across her body, gaping like voids. Her eyes glowed dully with sorrow, framed by tangled black hair. A crown of nails had been driven into her skull, a monument to her suffering.

"Tear off the flesh. Grind the bones. What's left?" whispered the Betrayed One. "We change. We break. We rebuild. But the cycle is endless. New selves emerge. Old ones fade. It never stops."

The room thickened with dread.

"This is too much," said the Hopeful One, stepping forward. Her long white dress shimmered like moonlight on still water. Golden curls fell over her soft features, her voice shaking but filled with conviction.

"We don't have to accept being fragments. We can become something more. Why can't we touch real grass instead of simulations? Why can't we meet people beyond our projections?"

"Hopeful," the Apathetic One interrupted, her voice like a scalpel, "Spare us. We all know what we are. Constructs. Echoes. Shadows of the Main."

The response made some flinch. Others simply turned away. Laughter, bitter and broken, rang from the corner. A few wept. Most were silent.

The Apathetic One leaned back in her chair, her gaze empty, locked on the void.

"If this meeting is to devolve into sentiment and delusion, then it should end."

"May I speak?"

A soft voice—gentle, yet imbued with gravitas—cut through the stillness.

From the far end of the room, a woman cradled a sleeping infant in her arms. Her soft, curly brown hair framed her round glasses and tired eyes. Though she exuded maternal comfort, there was a vacancy behind her gaze—a weariness beneath her smile.

She sat in a nursing chair, flanked by two silent guardians. They were titanic, armored in soft bibs, blankets, and pacifiers. Childlike and monstrous.

"We need to consider the future—our offspring," she said. "Even if we can't control what the Main becomes, we can still honor the hive. We're queens. Our biology demands purpose. But that requires wellness—physical and mental. Which we've long ignored."

Her words fell like a quiet verdict.

"Hm..." the Smart One adjusted her glasses, her voice analytical. "That's achievable. If a majority commit to a structured regimen, paired with nutritional improvements, the Main's stability could increase. Low effort. High reward."

"O-Okay," whispered the Shy One, barely audible, nodding meekly.

"No way," the Rebel grunted. "Not wasting my time on that health-cult bullshit."

"Me. Eat," the Wild One snarled, licking her jagged teeth.

The Victorian One laughed, bitter and cold.

"How pitiful we've become. These meetings are nothing but performance. Fractured pieces playing house while the Main forgets we even exist. Talking won't fix us. Action won't either. This is what we are. And what we always will be."

"So what?" The Hopeful One stood again, her eyes burning. "We just give up? Hide in our rooms until we're torn apart again? Until we fade into concepts and code, into shadows of meaning?"

The Victorian One rose, her posture regal, yet hard.

"We are emotions. Ideas. Aspects. Echoes. This is our reality. No amount of wishful thinking changes that."

Her voice was calm—but behind it was a truth no one dared challenge.

"Most of us began as fragments—spawned not from unity, but from pain. You want to go back to something that never truly existed. That's the hypocrisy."

She paused, her gaze resting coldly on the Hopeful One, her eyes devoid of sympathy. Then, she turned toward the others, her tone smooth and precise.

"Do you remember what the Monstrous One was before becoming an aspect?" the Victorian asked, her voice slicing through the tension like silk on steel.

She turned toward the creature, still motionless, as though the very room had stopped breathing in its presence.

"It was a concept—formless, directionless. Chaos. Death. Untamed, just as we all were once. The ideas that birthed us may have changed, evolved... but the core remains the same. We are made from the same essence."

She glanced around, her words slow and deliberate, like incantations carved into stone.

"It doesn't matter if we exist because the Main dreamed us into a fantasy world, or if the element of Life granted us form. What matters is that we're here. We understand what we are, what we embody. We are pieces of something greater. Fractured, yes—but vital."

A hush fell over the room. Her voice now held gravity, not just arrogance.

"Each of us excels in what we do. And now that she is being suppressed, we'll soon have more opportunities to manifest—naturally, cleanly, without distortion."

Silence followed. Heavy, oppressive. The air itself seemed to thicken, reality bending beneath the weight of her conviction.

"If that's all," said the Apathetic One, standing without ceremony, "then this meeting is adjourned."

She moved toward a plain door at the far end of the room and opened it. Beyond was a bottomless black void. Without pause, she stepped inside and disappeared. As she vanished, the chamber quaked. Chunks of the environment flickered out of existence—bookshelves, weapons, vines, lights—all vanishing in mid-air, leaving behind jagged, glowing scars in space.

The Monstrous One made a gurgling sound deep in its throat. Then, without speaking, its tangled hair slithered outward and pulled open a door made of warped, fleshy material. The void behind it pulsed, almost alive. The creature slipped inside like smoke, and with its departure, rotting patches on the floor dissolved into nothing.

One by one, the others began to leave. Each exit unraveled the room further. Cracks spidered along the walls, light peeled back into darkness, and every vanished presence dragged another thread of reality into the void. The cluttered chaos of the space—its screens, thrones, weapons, organic fragments—now hovered disjointed in blackness, like forgotten relics of a dream disassembling.

Then:

"Anything you'd like to say to my face?" the Victorian asked, her voice calm but laced with venom. She turned her gaze to the hulking figure of the insectoid being—bipedal, humanoid, but clearly unnatural. Its limbs twitched. Its form was patched together with fragments of glass, glinting in the dim light like a broken mirror trying to reassemble itself.

"Be cautious," the insect rumbled. Its voice echoed, slow and deep. "Enemies... kill."

It summoned a door of wax—slick with honey, vibrating with bees. Without further comment, it stepped through and vanished. The door sealed behind it, and another wave of space dissolved, leaving more elements floating like ghostly debris.

Still, some fragments remained.

The atmosphere grew colder, emptier, yet certain presences lingered with quiet defiance. They walked between drifting memories, through suspended petals and shards of bone, as if nothing had changed.

"I was just wondering..." The insect's voice returned, though its form was no longer visible—projected, perhaps, or merely lingering in some fragment of presence.

"Will you mention us to her? Even if we're just fragments—even if we're smaller aspects—we exist. Will you speak of us... as a whole?"

The Victorian tilted her head slightly. Her dark eyes glinted with unreadable thought.

"Hm... I'm not sure," she replied slowly. "There are things the Alter Ego won't let us say directly. But I can hint. Subtly. Maybe I'll redecorate the garden a bit—see if the Main notices."

Then a soft hiss emerged. It came from the glass-covered creature—its voice a blend of uncertainty and mechanical desperation.

"How should I feel? How should I act? Why? Am I necessary? Meticulous? Dangerous? Real? Unreal? Am I... sensation? Or simply illusion?"

The Victorian observed it—unblinking.

"Ah," she murmured, "You're doubt, aren't you? A questioner. A shard of the Suspicious One, perhaps. A byproduct of betrayal or broken trust. You're not complete yet."

The creature's voice splintered further. "Do I succeed? Am I failure? Am I truth? Or fiction? Am I just broken thoughts? Isn't reality... crumbling?"

Its words cracked like ice breaking over stone.

She offered a faint smile. No warmth in it—only awareness.

"Don't dwell on it too much. You're not finished forming. I heard whispers that you split off from Suspicion... but you're unique. Still unrefined. Undefined."

The insect's voice returned again, low and vibrating. "Oh? You're... caring for it? Odd."

The Victorian chuckled lightly. "I do what I feel is necessary. But even I can't navigate its space. Too abstract. Too volatile."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.

"Here's advice, for you smaller aspects," she said, her tone turning dark, hungry. "Don't get too close to each other. Merge too deeply, and you may never come back. Assimilation isn't just a theory—it's inevitable for the weak."

She brushed her fingers against the glass creature cheek. A gesture so gentle it could've been affectionate—but the thing recoiled, twitching violently.

"Relax," she said sweetly. "It's not me you should worry about. It's the larger aspects. The ones like you, but whole. They'll pull you in, absorb you back into themselves. And once they do?"

She smiled.

"You'll be gone. Even if you split again, you'll never be the same. You'll never be you again."

The glass entity trembled, letting out a high, fractured hiss. The insect didn't respond, only standing rigid—torn between primal fear and unresolved thoughts. The Victorian waved with a final flourish. "Well then. Thank you for the meeting."

Her heels clicked softly on the thinning floor, echoing as if across eternity.

"Bye-bye, little ones."

She stepped toward a wooden door—solid, carved with roots and delicate blossoms. It opened before her, and she passed through without a second glance.

The room, now held together by fragments of memory alone, continued to unravel—petals, bones, words, wires—all drifting into the void.