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The door wasn’t on any blueprint. Lila checked twice. Three times. But it stood at the end of the West Wing corridor, between the old photography lab and the guidance office—painted the same pale green as the walls, easy to miss if you weren’t looking. But they were looking now. Because the floor outside it had started to blister. Thin cracks, black at the seams, pulsed gently beneath their feet like veins under skin. Callie stepped forward first, her fingers brushing the brass handle. It was warm. “This is it,” she whispered. Ava glanced over her shoulder. “You sure?” Maren opened her notebook. The page was blank except for one line: The staircase goes down. But not all who follow return. No one asked if they had a choice. They never did. The door opened without resistance. Beyond it was stone—old, wet, and breathing. The first few steps were steep and narrow, carved from raw earth and reinforced by wood that creaked like it had bones inside. Lila flicked on her flashlight. The beam didn’t reach far. The darkness felt... aware. As they moved deeper, the walls grew tighter. Letters had been carved into the stone by unsteady hands—dates, phrases, names. A few were familiar. Most weren’t. Magnus Gray. Helena Rhodes. Elias. And then, more recent ones: Ava King. Lila Dawson. Maren Fields. Callie Riven. Callie stopped. “That’s my last name,” she said. “I never wrote it down. Never told anyone.” Ava stepped beside her. “Neither did I.” The tunnel pressed on. They followed the ink-veined stairs into something deeper than a basement. Deeper than story. The air changed. Smelled like forgotten pages and fireless ash. Suddenly, Maren stopped. “Do you feel that?” she whispered. It was a hum. Like a chord played low and slow. Beneath the frequency of sound, under the skin. “The Book,” Ava said. “It’s singing again.” But it wasn’t the same song as before. This one wasn’t calling for help. It was calling something back. They reached a landing. There, embedded in the wall, was a massive stone door. Unlike the one upstairs, this one was covered in ink—dripping symbols, shifting glyphs that refused to be read. At its center: a handprint. Callie reached for it instinctively, but Ava grabbed her wrist. “No,” she said. “Not yet.” Lila stepped closer, brushing her fingers over the edge. “This isn’t just a door. It’s a seal.” Maren opened her notebook. New words had appeared without her touch. She is already inside.The ink is rewriting the roots.You must remember your truth—Before she unmakes it. “Who’s she?” Callie asked. They didn’t need to say it. They already knew. Rue. Ava turned to the others, eyes steady. “She’s looking for the first page.” Lila swallowed hard. “What happens if she finds it?” A beat of silence. Then Callie said, flatly: “She’ll erase us.” Ava stepped forward and pressed her palm to the handprint. The door shuddered. The ink symbols flared, once—then went dark. Stone groaned. And the seal began to open. Beyond was a staircase carved in impossible geometry, descending not through rock, but through memory. And the descent began.

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ProudMommy0321

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Ceria Mcgrone

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