The crack in the wall widened with a sigh, as if the chamber itself had waited too long to breathe. Light poured through, not harsh, but dense, like moonlight steeped in fog. Finn stepped in first, one hand brushing the edge of the broken threshold. The surface was warm.
Beyond the crack, a tunnel unfurled, soft and fibrous, like the inside of a great loom. Threads stretched from wall to wall in no discernible pattern, taut yet trembling, as if recently strummed.
The reader entered behind him and paused. "This is a skein chamber."
"What's that?"
"A place where all unfinished intentions come to rest."
The path led downward, spiraling slowly. As they moved, the threads shifted. Some pulsed. Others glowed faintly. A few hummed with low, wordless vibrations. When Finn brushed one by accident, a sound rang out, his own voice, from years ago, whispering someone's name.
He stopped. "That was mine."
"They hold echoes of things you meant to say but never did."
He shivered, stepping carefully. They passed deeper, and the air began to hum louder. Thread by thread, the chamber began to thicken.
On the walls, memories blossomed where the threads touched. A letter never sent, a hand never held, a door never opened. All of it played like shadow puppetry against the pulsing silk.
Finn recognized one.
A winter night, too many years ago. A fire lit in an alley. Him crouched beside it, alone. A woman passing by paused, but he said nothing. Not then.
The reader touched the wall beside the vision, and it faded gently.
"This place isn't showing us regret. It's showing possibility."
They continued downward. The tunnel widened into a vast chamber where the ceiling could not be seen. Floating far above was a single point of white light, like a star frozen mid-fall.
Beneath it, webs spread in vast concentric layers. At their center, suspended like a moth, hung a figure.
The figure was not Cassor. Nor was it the Midkeeper. It was someone new, but not unfamiliar.
A girl. Or what remained of one.
Her form was woven from ink-streaked parchment and threads of glass. Her limbs bent strangely. Her face was serene, as if sleeping. Around her spun a cocoon of names, thousands etched into each filament. They spun slowly, rearranging themselves as if searching for order.
The reader exhaled. "She's not a prisoner. She's a pause."
Finn whispered, "Who is she?"
"The Archivist Who Never Was."
"What does that mean?"
"She was meant to carry the Archive, but the Archive refused her. Or she refused it. No one is sure. Her story was left untold, and so it grew tangled here."
The threads tightened.
Above them, in the highest reaches of the web, a single word formed from glowing script:
Choose.
Finn looked up, heart pounding.
The reader touched his arm. "This is the fold that breaks all others."
As Finn stepped forward, the web began to descend slowly, spiraling down from the vaulted dark. The light from the far ceiling dimmed. A hush filled the air.
He could feel it again, that presence he had first felt in the scroll. But now it was clearer, more focused. The air thickened with its breath.
The suspended girl hovered just above him now, arms outstretched, palms turned inward. Her eyes remained shut, but her lips parted.
A single name slipped out.
It was not his. Not hers. But something deeper. A name too old to belong to any one person.
The threads of the web responded. They began to unravel.
The cocoon slowly split down the center, not in violence, but like a book being opened.
Inside the fold, a second figure lay nested.
Smaller. Silent.
It looked like Finn.
The reader gasped softly. "It's a fragment."
He stared, breath shallow. "Of me?"
"Of who you would have become, if something hadn't changed."
Finn stepped back. "I don't understand."
"You're seeing your own unchosen thread."
He turned to her. "Can I speak to it?"
"You can listen."
The web opened wider. The second Finn opened his eyes.
He didn't speak. Instead, he lifted a single hand and held out something small.
A folded piece of parchment.
Finn hesitated, then took it.
It was blank.
He looked back up, but the other him was fading, the cocoon closing again.
The reader whispered, "It's not an answer. It's an invitation."
Finn unfolded the parchment. As he did, one word appeared, written in wet ink:
Stay.
He folded it again and placed it in his coat beside the name he still hadn't spoken aloud.
The web slowed its descent.
The girl at its center spoke again, softer than breath.
"Carry it."
Finn nodded.
And the white skein began to lift, its purpose fulfilled.
As the threads retracted, the chamber shifted again. The tunnel behind them closed. Another opened.
The reader took his hand.
"You're not unraveling," she said. "You're weaving."
They stepped into the next passage, threads brushing their shoulders like farewells.
The choice had been made.
The Archive had begun to dream.