The thing under the cradle wasn't a child.
It was a book—bound in bark, veins threading through the cover like roots.
When Alexis picked it up, it breathed.
Pages turned on their own. Inside, there were no words. Only drawings.
The first: a spiral. Simple. Unmoving.
The second: a cradle surrounded by thirteen mirrors.
The third: a girl's face—hers, but distorted. Her eyes were filled with soil.
"I remember this," Alexis whispered.
Amelia, pale, pointed at the final drawing. "That's the lab. The real one."
Beneath the last drawing, ink began to rise. A new line appeared.
> "You are Seed 5. You are nearing bloom."
The roots coiled tighter around their ankles. The room began to fold inward like paper, the spiral collapsing inward.
From the ceiling, a voice descended. Familiar. Feminine. Cold.
> "Memory is a prison you built to survive. But even prisons rot."
A door appeared at the end of the spiraling room.
Etched on its wood: Room 000.
Amelia reached for it.
But behind her, the mirror flickered.
And another her was watching—smiling.