The moment I touched the File, a current ran through me—electric, metallic, alive. The air around me vibrated, and the faint green light warped into intricate patterns, gears spinning in impossible synchrony.
The pages of the File flipped themselves open, revealing diagrams of mechanisms that defied logic: interlocking cogs, suspended pistons, and tiny, intricate figures moving inside clockwork bodies. And at the center of each diagram, a hollow figure—like the Astronaut—hovered, faceless, yet full of memory.
Words etched themselves across the pages:
"Every soul is a cog. Every memory a spring. Every reflection a gear. Break one, the system halts. Restore one, the system endures."
I shivered. The Glass Mother. The Children. The Hollow Astronaut. They weren't separate entities. They were all parts of the Archive, connected through some vast, mechanical mind I could barely comprehend.
The tunnel of fractured light pulsed, and I realized the Astronaut had followed me in. Its hiss was quieter now, almost hesitant, as though it were studying me.
A new page turned, revealing a key. Not a key made of metal or wood, but of light and shadow intertwined, its teeth spinning like a miniature gear system.
"To unlock the path, you must first become the key," the page whispered.
I swallowed, unsure what it meant. Then a vision struck me: my own reflection, splintered, merging with shards of glass, fragments of children's faces, and the hollow void of the Astronaut. I realized the Clockwork Key wasn't something I could hold—it was something I had to embody.
The Astronaut tilted its head again, void-helmet facing me fully. I could feel the pull now, a gentle yet irresistible tug at my mind, as if it wanted me to surrender, to let go of myself and become part of the mechanism.
I clenched the lantern in my hand. Its flame had returned, faint but steady, and I realized this: the lantern wasn't just light—it was my anchor. My memory. My self. If I let it go, I would become another cog, another hollow reflection, another servant of the Archive.
I reached toward the glowing key with my free hand. The moment I touched it, a cascade of visions flooded my mind: the Glass Mother rising from shards, the Children chanting, the Hollow Astronaut endlessly drifting through void corridors, and countless forgotten souls trapped in clockwork prisons.
Then—clarity. The key wasn't about merging with them. It was about unlocking them. Unlocking the Archive. Unlocking the stories. Unlocking what had been hidden from all who came before.
With a deep breath, I turned the key within my mind, feeling it twist inside invisible gears. The tunnel of light shifted, rearranging itself, forming a path not just forward, but upward. And I understood—escape was no longer enough. I had to confront the heart of the Archive itself.
The Astronaut stepped aside, almost reverently. The path opened.
And at the end, I glimpsed a figure—familiar, terrifying, yet not entirely unrecognizable.
The Glass Mother.
But she was waiting—not to claim me, but to speak.
"You found the key," she said, her fractured voice softer now, tinged with something almost human. "Do you know what it unlocks… or who?"
I stepped forward, lantern steady, and whispered:"I will find out."
The Archive held its breath.