The bridge trembled beneath their feet as they walked toward the red glow. Every step echoed like thunder in the empty dark, and the air was thick with something unspoken like a storm that hadn't broken yet.
Lilith could feel it in her bones: the truth was close. But truth was never just truth not in this world. It came with consequences.
The red glow grew larger.
It was a door.
A tall, ancient thing, carved from bone and veins of stone, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic light. It looked alive, and more than that it felt familiar.
Francisca stopped walking. "I don't want to go through."
Lilith turned back. "Why not?"
"Because whatever's behind that door… it's been calling me too."
Emanuel placed a hand on her shoulder. "We face it together."
Lilith stepped forward and placed her hand on the door. It was ice cold.
As she pressed her palm to the center, the pulsing stopped and the door whispered:
"One truth. One lie.
Choose which opens the way."
Two symbols appeared one on the left, one on the right. One burned with golden light. The other was black and cold as void.
Lilith stared. "What if we choose wrong?"
"You don't," the voice from the door said. "You reveal who you are."
Her heart thudded. The golden one felt warm, safe. The black one felt like falling.
Francisca stepped beside her and pointed to the black. "I think… it's this."
"Why?"
"Because nothing in this place has ever been safe."
Lilith nodded slowly. She looked back at Emanuel he gave a slight, grim nod.
Then she chose the black symbol.
The door screamed.
It split open with a deafening crack, releasing a burst of air that knocked them back and inside was her house.
Her childhood house.
Exactly the way she remembered it. Except everything was bathed in red.
The living room. Her mother's chair. The worn-out carpet. The broken photo frame by the TV. Except now, the people in the frame were missing their faces.
Lilith's throat tightened.
Francisca walked in slowly, wide-eyed. "It's like… someone's been watching your memories."
Then, they heard it a quiet shuffle upstairs.
Someone was there.
Without speaking, they crept up the steps. Each creak of the wood sounded like it echoed through dimensions.
At the top of the stairs, Lilith's old bedroom door was ajar.
Inside… someone sat in the dark, hunched over her childhood desk.
Writing.
The same black ink. The same glowing book.
The person turned slowly.
Lilith gasped.
It was her.
An older version. Eyes sunken. Wrists covered in glowing red scars.
"You're not real," Lilith whispered.
The other her smiled softly. "I wasn't… until you wrote me."