The cathedral had no roof. Its spires jutted like broken ribs into a sky choked with ash. 

   Vines of rusted fiber-optic cable hung from shattered stained glass, twitching in the wind like dying nerves. Beneath the altar, hidden behind a false panel of oxidized chrome, the archivist found the vault.

   He descended alone.

   The air grew colder, denser. The walls pulsed faintly with residual charge. He passed rows of ossified data banks, their surfaces etched with the names of the dead. But deeper still—beneath the sacrarium of failed resurrection—he found them.

   Skulls. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Each wired into a lattice of black-veined mycelium and copper. The neural lattice glowed faintly, like embers in a dying fire. A whisper stirred, " Welcome. "

  The archivist—name long forgotten, face half-burned from the last data war—had come seeking truth. 

   History had collapsed into myth. The world above was a patchwork of scavenged memories and synthetic dreams. But here, in the Bone Archive, the final moments of the dead were preserved. Not as files. As experiences.

   He connected the first skull.

   Pain. A child’s scream. The smell of ozone and blood. A memory of falling—no, being pushed. Then silence.

   He disconnected, trembling. The skull’s eye sockets seemed to watch him.

   He connected another.

   A soldier. Dying in a trench of glass. Whispering as the sky turned red. Then static.

   Each skull offered a fragment. A glimpse. A wound. He catalogued them, mapped them, tried to build a timeline. But the memories began to bleed. He dreamed of wars he’d never fought. Lovers he’d never touched. Regrets that weren’t his.

   The archive was leaking.

   He tried to stop. He tried to leave. But the vault had no exit now. The stairs were gone. The walls had shifted. The lattice pulsed brighter.

   The whisper, " You are becoming. "

   He screamed. Tore wires from his arms. But the memories kept coming. Not just from the skulls—from the walls, the floor, the air. The archive was alive. It had been feeding for centuries. Every archivist who entered became part of it.

   He wasn’t the first.

   He saw them now—ghosts in the lattice. Archivists, priests, scavengers. All consumed. All whispering. All dreaming.

   The skulls began to whisper.

   We remember.

        We regret.

          We rebuild.

   He understood. The archive wasn’t preserving history. It was rewriting it. Stitching together a composite soul from the final moments of thousands. A god of endings. A mosaic of death.

   And now, it wanted a body.

   His.

   The lattice surged. Wires pierced his spine. Memories flooded him—millions of deaths, stitched into a tapestry of sorrow. He saw the collapse, the wars, the betrayals. He saw the first archivist, weeping as he offered his mind. He saw the last child, dying alone beneath a broken sky.

   He saw himself.

   But not as he was. As he had become.

   The Bone Archive opened its eyes.

   It walked.