Lyra couldn't remember her mother's voice.
She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the book, trying to summon the sound — the cadence, the warmth, the syllables. But all she heard was velvet. All she felt was ink.
Maris watched her quietly. "You're unraveling."
Lyra nodded. "I stitched too deep."
The Recovery Room
Nova Quinn appeared at breakfast, their eyes glowing faintly.
"There's a place," they whispered. "Where memories go to rest."
Lyra frowned. "A classroom?"
Nova shook their head. "A room that isn't on the map. It moves. It listens. It remembers."
Maris leaned in. "Where?"
Nova smiled. "Follow the silence."
That night, Lyra walked the halls alone.
She passed the Obsidian Tower, the Reflection Pool, the Mirror Garden. She followed the silence — the places where sound bent, where whispers faded, where footsteps didn't echo.
She found the door behind the Ink Lab.
It wasn't marked.
It opened when she touched it.
Inside
The room was circular, lined with mirrors that didn't reflect. The floor was soft, like memory. The air pulsed gently, like breath.
In the center was a chair.
Lyra sat.
The room responded.
The Unraveling
Memories flooded her — real ones, false ones, stitched ones.
She saw her mother's face. Her real one. Laughing in the kitchen, singing off-key.
She saw Madame Calyx, smiling gently, whispering truths.
She saw Riven Lux, walking through the fifth tower, eyes blank.
She saw herself — dozens of versions — stitched with different emotions, different choices, different endings.
She cried.
The room absorbed it.
The Choice
A voice echoed — not spoken, but felt.
> "You may keep what is yours. But you must name what is not."
Lyra whispered:
- "The hallway dream — hers."
- "The mirror trial — mine."
- "The stitched smile — not mine."
- "The fear — mine."
- "The fire — ours."
The room pulsed.
The mirrors shimmered.
And then her reflection returned.
The Return
Lyra stumbled back to her dorm.
Maris caught her. "Did it work?"
Lyra nodded. "I'm me again."
Maris smiled. "Then we can keep going."
The Book Again
The book pulsed softly.
New ink appeared:
> "Recovery is not reversal. You are still stitched. But now you know the thread."
Lyra touched the page. "Then I can choose what to weave."