He ran.
Not walked.
Not wandered.
He ran, breath heavy, heartbeat louder than the world around him. The hallways blurred. The walls stretched and twisted, but he didn't slow down. The story bent to let him through—because this time, he remembered the way.
He didn't need directions.
He'd lived this before.
He crashed through the old garden gate, past the rusted statue, through the courtyard painted in permanent dusk.
And there, just as he remembered, stood the tree.
Crooked and towering, bark blackened as if burned long ago. Its roots knotted the ground like ribs jutting from the earth.
He dropped to his knees and started digging.
Hands clawed at the dirt. No care for splinters. No pause for pain.
He remembered this. He had done it before.
Once calm.Once broken.Once desperate.
Now? Focused.
The soil was looser than it should've been. As if something wanted to be found.
Then—his fingers hit something.
But not a key.
The ground gave way.
A crack split beneath the roots, opening into darkness.
He leaned closer.
There was no ladder. No carved passage. Just a void in the soil, too symmetrical to be natural, too deliberate to be safe.
A breathless second passed.
Then he dropped into it.
The fall was short, soft. He landed on something that felt like old cloth and crumbling parchment.
He stood slowly, brushing dust from his hands, and looked around.
He wasn't underground. Not exactly.
It felt like a room without walls.
A cavern of floating paper, torn pages suspended midair. Some were blank. Some held half-words. A few flickered like candle flames, changing every time he blinked.
There were no windows. No ceiling. Just an atmosphere heavy with unfinished thoughts.
At the center of the space stood a single desk.
On it, an open book.
Not his.
Not yet.
He stepped forward, drawn to it.
One of the pages hovered beside him.
It read:
This part was never supposed to be read.
He looked down at the book on the desk.
Its title had no name.
But he knew.
It was his story.And something was trying to keep it buried.