Nocturne for the Damned
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 1

The lamps along the street sputtered under the thickening fog, their flames dimmed to sullen embers. Windows along the boulevard glittered with light and laughter, but behind every curtained veil, a ledger was kept — invisible, meticulous, merciless.

"Every pleasure tallied. Every deviation remembered."

The mist creeps low around your boots as you walk with your collar turned high, the taste of wet stone sharp on your tongue. The gaslights sputter and hiss above, their glow struggling against the gloom, gilding the marble columns and ironwork balconies in a sickly, shifting halo.

Somewhere nearby, a musician saws a mournful tune from a battered violin. The notes drift through the fog, warping into something cracked and broken before reaching your ears. Perfume and coal smoke tangle in the air, masking the more honest scents of rot, iron, and old blood.

Carriages roll past in steady procession, wheels throwing up muddy fans of water onto the cracked stone. The passengers inside wear painted smiles and jewel-toned silks, but their eyes — when they dare to glance at you — are hollow, distant, hungry.

One carriage slows as it passes. Behind its glass, a pale figure presses her hand to the window, her fingers delicate and gloved, her expression hidden by a lacquered mask. A child's mask, you realize — frozen in a rictus grin.
"Is it warning... or farewell?"

You tighten your grip on your coat and keep walking.

Above, the rooftops groan as something moves through the mist, too swift and sure to be the wind. The corner of your eye catches a glint — polished glass, perhaps a monocle — and the flutter of a long coat as a figure slips from one eave to another. Watching. Always watching.

The bells of Marrowgate sound the hour, a long, wheezing groan that shudders through the stones beneath your feet. A reminder: Curfew is near. Eyes are everywhere.

"You are weighed," the signs say, gilt letters flowing like blood in the lamplight. "You are watched. You are wanted."

ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 2

The mist thickens as you move forward, swallowing the edges of the world in a dim, churning grey. Each footstep sounds too loud on the broken cobbles, each breath too sharp against the pressing silence. Somewhere, behind the cracked facades and shuttered windows, laughter blooms and dies like a withered rose.

Above, the watchers move.

You catch glimpses — a hand withdrawing from a balcony rail, a flicker of a silhouette against the rooftops. No one confronts you. No one calls out. They simply observe, recording your every movement with a patience older than law.

The great bells of Marrowgate groan again, a deeper, slower toll. Curfew edges closer, dragging unseen consequences with it. The gaslights along the boulevard gutter low, as though in warning.

Ahead, a hall spills gold and music into the street, its doors thrown wide in careless defiance of the curfew. Figures in velvet masks drift in and out like smoke, their laughter brittle, desperate.

To your left, a narrow alley vanishes into the mist, silent and unmarked.

Or you could remain where you are, unseen and still, and let the watchers make the next move.

In this city, movement is memory. Stillness is defiance. Every choice is a mark upon the ledger.

> Approach the glittering hall and risk the gaze of revelers and watchers alike.
> Slip into the alleyway and seek safer, forgotten paths.
> Remain where you are and observe those who observe you.

>>6231299
>Slip into the alleyway and seek safer, forgotten paths.

>>6231312
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 3

The alley mouth yawns before you like a black wound torn in the city's golden skin. Without hesitation, you slip into its narrow throat, leaving the broad, glittering avenue behind.

The world shifts immediately. The gaslight fades to nothing. The perfume of wealth and velvet gives way to the bitter reek of damp stone and iron rust. The only sound is the slow drip of unseen water, tapping against the broken cobbles in a steady, mocking rhythm.

Here, among the refuse and the forgotten, the city changes. The walls loom higher, crowding close with their cracked plaster and crumbling brick. Windows are boarded shut or shattered, their empty frames gaping like broken mouths. Shadows seem to lean inward as you pass.

You step carefully around a fallen lamp post, its glass shattered across the stones like scattered teeth. Beneath the ruin, faint symbols have been scratched into the stone — strange, looping marks you do not recognize. Their meaning is unclear, but you feel the weight of them all the same, like a hand pressed against your back.

Far ahead, a faint orange glow flickers at the end of the alley, a broken lantern swinging from a rusted chain. Beyond it, the alley splits — one branch plunging deeper into darkness, the other veering toward what sounds like faint voices murmuring behind a sagging wooden door.

Above you, somewhere in the gloom, something shifts again — a faint scrape of leather on stone.

The watchers do not always remain above.

> Follow the path toward the broken lantern and investigate the murmuring voices.
> Take the darker path and vanish deeper into the forgotten veins of the city.
> Retreat and return to the boulevard while you still can.

>>6231318
>Take the darker path and vanish deeper into the forgotten veins of the city.

ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 4

You turn from the flickering lantern and step into the darker path, where even the mist dares not follow.

The alley narrows to a throat, the broken stones slick beneath your boots. Overhead, the leaning walls seem to press closer, blotting out the dim glow of the higher city. The scent of mildew and old ash thickens, curling in your nostrils. Somewhere nearby, something unseen breathes — not with the soft rasp of a living creature, but with the long, dry exhalations of a house collapsing inward upon itself.

You pass a doorway sagging from rusted hinges. Inside, a marble floor stretches away into blackness, patterned with intricate inlays of gold now dulled and spiderwebbed with cracks. The walls beyond are scorched, as though fire had tried — and failed — to erase the memories kept there.

A tangle of ivy spills from a broken archway, but the leaves glisten with a faint, unnatural sheen, as if drinking from a poisoned root. You brush past, and the vines twitch at your passing, as though reluctant to release you.

Further still, the path descends — shallow at first, then steeper, as if the city itself were hollow and you had found a crack in its brittle shell.

Whispers chase your steps now. Not words — not truly — but shapes of thought pressing against your ears. Hunger. Memory. Invitation.

At the bottom of the sloping alley, the world opens unexpectedly into a broad courtyard hemmed in by sagging facades. A broken fountain stands at its heart, its basin dry, its statue worn faceless by time. Murals peel from the surrounding walls: angels and scholars and kings, all their eyes scratched away.

On the far side, an arched passage yawns open, deeper still into the belly of Marrowgate.

Above the arch, a plaque remains, its letters barely visible in the weak light:

"For the penitent, a door. For the unworthy, a maw."

> Approach the dry fountain and search for hidden paths or relics.
> Cross the courtyard and enter the arched passage beyond.
> Retreat back the way you came before the darkness swallows you whole.

>>6231333
>Cross the courtyard and enter the arched passage beyond.
Let's see what our character is.

>>6231358
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 5

You cross the cracked courtyard, the soles of your boots stirring old ash into the mist. The broken fountain stands silent at your side, its dry basin choked with dead ivy and shattered stone. Murals peel from the surrounding walls — angels defaced, kings blinded, scholars silenced.

The arched passage ahead looms larger as you approach, its opening lined with crumbling stone and rusted iron hooks where lanterns once swung. The faint light from the street fades behind you, swallowed by the narrow throat of the passage.

The air changes — cooler, heavier, as if the weight of centuries presses inward from all sides.

Your hand brushes the worn plaque as you pass beneath it, the old inscription rough against your fingertips:
"For the penitent, a door. For the unworthy, a maw."

Inside, the world is different. The stone corridor curves downward, slick with damp, and faint etchings mar the walls — names perhaps, scratched by desperate hands. The whisper of your steps echoes in strange counterpoint, as if unseen companions mirror your every movement.

The questions you have carried without voice stir now, rising like smoke within your mind.
Why were you walking these streets tonight? What have you lost — or forgotten?
No answer comes. Only the sound of your breath, the tightening of your chest, and the slow, rhythmic drip of unseen water deeper within the bones of the city.

Ahead, the corridor splits — four paths, each no more welcoming than the last.

> Take the narrow stairs spiraling downward into deeper dark.
> Follow the faint scent of burning incense toward a half-open door.
> Enter the side passage where flickering reflections hint at water.
> Turn back — or try to — and find another way.

>>6231362
>Enter the side passage where flickering reflections hint at water.

>>6231456
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 6

You turn aside, drawn by the wavering reflections glinting along the damp stone walls. The air grows cooler as you step into the side passage, and the sound of dripping water becomes louder, sharper, like a hundred ticking clocks.

The corridor widens into a cavernous chamber where shattered tiles line the floor in faded mosaics. At its center lies a long, shallow pool, fed by thin rivulets weeping from cracks in the ceiling. The water shivers with every breath of the earth, sending ripples across the surface.

You move closer. Your reflection meets you — and does not match.

The figure in the water wears your coat, your boots, but its face is half-shadowed, half-formed. Eyes clouded. Mouth moving in a soundless whisper. Around its throat, a fine chain glints, bearing an emblem you cannot make out.

Who are you?

The pool stretches on, disappearing into darkness beneath a crumbling archway. Beside it, an iron ladder climbs into a shaft of blackness above. Near the far end, a door sits ajar, the light beyond flickering like a dying fire.

And all the while, the water hums with restless memory.

> Step into the pool and approach your reflection.
> Climb the ladder and see what lies above.
> Cross to the far door and leave the reflections behind.
> Remain still and listen to what the water tries to say.

>>6231550
>Remain still and listen to what the water tries to say.

>>6231958
I appreciate your continued participation. Let's continue.

ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 7

You kneel by the trembling water and still yourself.
No ripples now. No footfalls. No breath louder than the drip-drip-drip from the crumbling arches above.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then — like mist curling into shape — the water begins to speak.

It does not form words, not truly. Instead, it brushes against the hollow places inside you, where memory should live but does not. It shows you flashes: a rose crushed in a gloved hand; a ledger, its ink bleeding down the page; a figure with your face — not smiling, not pleading, simply watching as the city burned behind them.

You have been here before.

The realization lands with the weight of a tombstone. Your footsteps know these stones. Your blood hums in rhythm with the ancient, aching bones of Marrowgate. Whatever name you wore — whatever sins you carried — they are woven into the ledger as surely as breath into your lungs.

The reflection shivers. It seems closer now, its clouded eyes clearer, its whisper louder.

"Choose... again."

The pool ripples wider, and within its trembling mirror you see paths unfolding:

A library swallowed in ivy and silence.
A banquet hall, empty save for broken chairs and spilled wine.
A vast, darkened vault where chains hang motionless from the ceiling.
A towering staircase spiraling into smoke and shattered stars.

The reflections fade, leaving only the dim flicker of your own shadow.

Behind you, the murmuring grows louder — not from the water, but from the corridors you left behind. Footsteps, perhaps. Or something else.

The time to linger has ended.

> Seek the library lost beneath the ivy.
> Find the banquet hall and search among its ruins.
> Descend into the vault of chains.
> Ascend the staircase and see what lies beyond the stars.

>>6231982
>Seek the library lost beneath the ivy.

>>6232052
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 8

The vision fades, but the memory it leaves in your bones pulls you forward. You rise, turn, and walk — not by logic or light, but by instinct, as if something long buried remembers the path.

The corridor tightens, stone giving way to brick, then bone-colored plaster veined with mold. Ivy presses in through cracks in the walls, not bright or green but pale, brittle, and blind. It coils along the ceiling like veins in an ancient skull.

At last you reach a rusted gate. Beyond it, a flight of stone stairs descends in a slow spiral. You descend without hesitation, your hand trailing the wall, the ivy brushing your skin with a touch like frost.

Below, the passage opens into a wide, domed chamber — impossibly still.

The library is not grand. It is not beautiful. It is buried and broken, a tomb of memory arranged like a cathedral. Shelves lean like gravestones. Scrolls decay in quiet piles. Books lie open where no hands have touched them in generations, their pages puckered and faded.

The ivy is everywhere, threading between the stacks, crawling over ledgers, twisting through rusted chandeliers. A thick carpet of it coats the floor, crunching underfoot like dried parchment. You tread gently, aware that this place is sacred in a way no temple ever was.

In the far corner, half-buried in vines, stands a podium. Upon it rests a single book, untouched by dust.

It waits.

You do not remember this place — but it remembers you.

>>6232052
>>6232058
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 9

You reach the podium, and the air thickens.

The book resting there is bound in blackened leather, cracked with age but untouched by dust. Ivy curls around its base but does not touch the cover. A sigil is burned into its surface — a closed eye surrounded by twelve inked thorns.

You open it.

The spine groans, but the pages move easily, turning themselves without wind or hand. Lines fill with ink before your eyes — not written, but revealed. The script is delicate, ancient, and shifting, as though remembering itself.

At the top of the page is a name.
Yours.

Not the name you’ve spoken. Not the one you gave.
But the one that gave *you*.

Beneath it: a ledger of moments.
Whispers of commands issued. Rooms entered. Truths denied. Names betrayed.
One line is crossed out with heavy black strokes — the ink wet, aggressive, recent. Another glows faintly.

The last is blank.

You do not remember writing these things.
But you remember what it felt like to be the person who could.

“Only the penitent may amend the record.”
The inscription curls along the page’s edge, vanishing beneath your thumb.

Behind you, something shifts. Footsteps? Breathing? No — only the city, reminding you that time in this place does not move forward. It coils.

The book waits.

> Reach for the crossed-out line and try to uncover what was erased.
> Touch the glowing entry and see what memory still lingers.
> Write something — anything — on the blank final line.
> Close the book and take it with you.

>>6232059
>> Touch the glowing entry and see what memory still lingers.

>>6232059
>Touch the glowing entry and see what memory still lingers.

>>6232221
>>6232248
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 10

Your fingers brush the glowing entry, and the book exhales.

The ink flashes — not with light, but with *presence*. The world tilts. The air thickens. Your reflection in the still water below fractures, and when it reforms, it is no longer alone.

You fall inward.

Not into darkness — but into memory.

You stand in a marble chamber lit by hanging chains of pale flame. Vines writhe along the walls, reaching toward the ceiling. The architecture is familiar but wrong — pulsing with breath, warped like something remembered through tears.

Someone kneels before you.

Their back is to you. A long coat. Fingers bloodied at the knuckles. Hair matted with sweat. You know them.

You do not remember their name, but your mouth still aches from having spoken it.

"You weren't meant to stay."

The words are yours, but spoken from another mouth. Your own voice echoes too loud in the chamber — as if the stone itself grieves its repetition.

The figure turns, slowly.

Their eyes are rimmed red. A chain coils around their wrist — not iron, but something organic, something pulsing. You see panic flicker across their face, but they swallow it. They do not scream.

"I didn’t stay for *them*," they say. "I stayed for *you*."

The chamber ripples. Vines tighten. The fire dims.

You move toward them, and something invisible stops you — a pressure in the air, thick and ancient. Your steps falter.

Their fingers clutch something at their chest. A pendant? A token? A knife? You can’t see. The moment shakes like wet paper. Their mouth moves again, forming words you once memorized and then fled from.

"Tell me I wasn’t wrong. Just once. Before it ends."

Your reflection in the marble is bleeding. Your mouth is closed. You do not answer.

The floor begins to open beneath them.

They do not resist it.

They look at you until they vanish.

You do not move.

>>6232221
>>6232248
>>6232279
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 11

The marble cracks. The chamber shatters.

You fall upward — through vines and ash, through your own held breath — and land hard, back in your body, back before the book.

The pool is quiet again.

But something is different.

Your hands are trembling. Your coat is damp at the collar. The ivy surrounding the podium has blackened, curling inward as though burned.

The book is still open.

The glowing entry is gone.

In its place, only the final line remains — blank. Waiting. Demanding.

You remember the moment. You feel it, raw and jagged in your chest.
You didn’t save them. You didn’t say the words. You didn’t know how — or you did, and chose silence.

And now?

Now the city remembers. The book remembers.
And you can’t unknow it again.

“Only the penitent may amend the record.”

The ink wells near your fingertips.

> Accept the memory. Write nothing. Carry the weight.
> Deny the memory. Close the book and walk away.
> Attempt to change the memory. Rewrite what happened.
> Tear the page from the book and keep it with you.

>>6232280
>Accept the memory. Write nothing. Carry the weight.

>>6232571
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 12

You close your hand over the page — not to write, not to strike, only to acknowledge.

The ink does not resist you.

The line remains empty. The paper does not curl, nor burst into flame, nor whisper some dark reward.

But the room breathes.

A long, low exhale. Stone shifting above. Water stirring behind. Ivy retracting into its walls.

You have not changed the past. You have not begged for erasure.
You have simply accepted it.

And the city knows.

The book closes itself with a sound like the final word in a conversation long overdue. The podium recedes an inch, as though relieved. The candles go out — all at once.

Only silence remains.

But you feel it now.
Not guilt — that came before.
Not redemption — that may never come.

But presence.

The weight of memory worn openly. A kind of armor. A kind of wound.

You rise.

The air in the library has grown colder. The ivy on the walls no longer writhes — it clings, like it’s hiding from something else. You feel watched again. Not from above.

From *within*.

You step away from the podium, and a page flutters to the ground behind you.
It isn’t from the book. It’s older. Paler.
On it: a sketch.

Your face.

Drawn in hurried, shaking lines — wearing an expression you’ve never made.

Yet.

Someone remembers you as something you haven’t become.

The silence deepens.

The door to the library waits — open now. The shadows behind it are long, and the light you carried in feels dimmer than before.

> Leave the library through the open passage and continue forward.
> Take the page with your face and keep it hidden.
> Search the surrounding shelves for more forgotten pieces of yourself.
> Stay a little longer and call out to the silence.

>>6232608
>Take the page with your face and keep it hidden.

>>6232971
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 13

You stoop and take the page.

The sketch is cold to the touch. Not in the way of paper left in stone air, but in the way of something that resists being held. Your fingers tremble as you fold it, carefully, once, twice, and slide it into the inner lining of your coat.

The moment you do, the library exhales again — not relief this time, but something closer to... adjustment.

The ivy on the walls curls inward. The last hanging strand slithers up and away, vanishing into cracked plaster. The podium, now empty, has begun to lean.

Something no longer watches.
But something else has begun to remember.

You stand alone in the dim light, the page hidden, its weight pressing subtly against your chest. You did not write it. You do not know who did.
But it *knew your face*.

And now it is yours.

The doorway behind you is still open. The passage beyond leads out of the library — not back the way you came, but into newer stone, faint torchlight, and low, distant echoes.

As you step toward it, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in a shard of broken glass embedded in the wall.

Your face looks the same.
But your shadow is wrong.

> Step into the new passage and follow the torchlit corridor forward.
> Turn and look back one last time at the library before leaving.
> Check the page — unfold it — and see if the image has changed.
> Speak aloud the name you do not remember giving yourself.

>>6232977
>Speak aloud the name you do not remember giving yourself.

>>6232977
> Speak aloud the name you do not remember giving yourself.

>>6233961
>>6233967
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 14

You stand still in the quiet, stone-walled library.

The air is thinner here now. The light colder. The silence around you not passive but expectant.

Your hand moves without thought, brushing the inside of your coat, finding the folded page.

It crackles faintly. Dry as pressed leaves. Warm as breath.

You unfold it.

The sketch is unchanged — your face drawn in dark, hasty lines, eyes hollow, mouth open as if mid-sentence. Around the edges of the parchment, smaller marks crawl — not text, not decoration. Scratches. Indentations. Etchings made by something not human.

But you know what they say.

Not with your mind — with your bones.

A name. A name that has not passed your lips in an age, though it once did often. In secret. In ceremony. In shame. Perhaps not your first name, or even your truest — but the one that was taken when you *chose to forget*.

You draw a breath.

And speak it.

The air tears.

No sound. No echo. Just sudden rupture — like paper ripped in a sealed room. The stone hums beneath your boots. The podium collapses behind you. One of the ancient chandeliers crashes from above, shattered on the tiled floor in a burst of metal and dried vine.

And from the shadow in the archway — not the door, but a breach in the wall you had not noticed — something moves.

Not fast.
Not aggressive.

But certain.

A figure, tall and robed in pages that flutter without wind. Its limbs are wrapped in black vine, glistening with glass thorns. Its face is smooth — too smooth — like wet clay waiting for imprint.

It does not speak.

It only watches.

Then, it tilts its head — just slightly — and turns, retreating into the breach.

It leaves the way open.

You do not know if this was a test. Or a response. Or an invitation.

Only that it heard you.
And now it knows you're awake.

> Follow the creature into the breach. Let memory lead you.
> Leave the name behind. Fold the page once more and take the other path.
> Remain still and face whatever comes through the breach if you do not follow.

>>6234806
> Follow the creature into the breach. Let memory lead you.

>>6235197
ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 15

You step through the breach.

It narrows behind you with a sound like stone grinding on wet parchment. The edges close not with force, but with intention — not to trap you, but to separate.
Whatever you leave behind is no longer the same.

The passage beyond is carved from material older than the library’s stone — a dense, fibrous wall that yields to your steps like dried muscle or aged paper. The pages lining it flutter faintly as you pass, though no wind moves here. Some bear names. Others bear symbols you almost recognize.
You do not look closely.

The air thickens.

The Thornsman leads, slow and deliberate, never touching the ground. It glides ahead, weightless, its pages whispering your name with each motionless stride. Not the name you speak aloud — the one you just remembered.
Each syllable shudders against the walls.

You descend. Deeper.

The passage curves downward in a long spiral, and time stretches. Your thoughts begin to stutter. Your memories do not align. You know your foot slips on the third step, but you cannot remember falling. You feel heat on your face, but you see only frost clinging to the walls.

The Thornsman stops.

You nearly collide with it — and realize there is now a chamber ahead. Vast. Hollow. Waiting.

At its center: a pool.

But this is no simple reflection basin. This one is black — impossibly so — a void that swallows even sound. Its surface does not shimmer. It quivers, like breath withheld. There is no light here, only awareness.

The Thornsman turns, and for the first time, its head bends fully toward you.

It raises a single arm wrapped in black vine and torn glyphs, and gestures — not to the pool, but to the space beside it, where a mirror leans, cracked and veiled in ash.

A second figure stands within that reflection.

Not a trick. Not a distortion.

It is you.

Wearing older clothes. Bearing a scar you do not yet have.
Watching you with something like pity.

Behind that you, a second Thornsman stands.
Smaller. Younger.
Still forming.

And for a moment, before the pages curl inward and the ash swallows the scene,
you remember…

…being the one who led.

>>6235210
ACT II – Nocturne, page 16

The vision fractures, and with it, the air in your lungs.

You stagger backward from the mirror, but your reflection does not follow. It lingers a heartbeat longer, then blurs—smearing across the surface like paint in rain. The smaller Thornsman behind it folds into shadow, its limbs still unformed, its face not yet chosen.

When you look to the true Thornsman, it is gone.

Only the pool remains.

You approach it—not by decision, but by gravity, by rhythm, by something in your bones that thrums like a chord struck long ago. The surface of the water does not reflect you. Instead, it reveals a sky that should not exist here: a ceiling of stars spinning in unfamiliar constellations. A blue moon. A tower without foundation. A child’s hand letting go of a ribbon that never lands.

You kneel. Not to drink. Not to pray.

Only to see.

And you do.

A flicker of fire. The same domed library. Empty now. Torn open from above. Ivy scorched to ash. A name written on every wall—*yours*—over and over, each one crossed out in a different hand.

The vision tightens.

A figure approaches the pool. You cannot see their face, but they carry something. A book. A knife. A mask. All three at once.

They lean close. And for the briefest moment, you feel their breath across the water—as though they are kneeling in the same place.
As though they are watching you.

The pool goes dark.

You stand.

The chamber has changed.

The passage behind you no longer leads upward. Instead, three arches have formed in the far wall, each carved with shifting symbols. They pulse faintly as if breathing in the dark.

A voice—not your own, not spoken aloud—flickers at the edge of your thoughts.

“Three truths, still unwritten. One you will bear. One you will resist. One you must choose.”

The pool is silent now. The mirror is gone.

You are alone—yet more known than ever.

>>6235211
ACT II – Nocturne, page 17

The three arches breathe.

Their stone surfaces do not remain still. Symbols glide across them like schools of ash-fish, etching and erasing in fluid, flickering rhythm. You take a step closer. The chamber does not brighten, but your understanding sharpens—as if proximity is unlocking a language long exiled from your mind.

Each arch bears a pulse.

Not light. Not heat.
A resonance.

The left arch hums low, like a bone-deep tremor. Its symbols flash images of hands bound by ivy, mouths sewn shut, a cloaked figure at a locked gate.
“That which you buried but still fear.”

The center arch burns steady, its carvings sharper, more deliberate: scales tipped by blood, a woman whispering to a flame, your own eyes staring back at you through a shattered mirror.
“That which you denied and must now face.”

The right arch barely flickers. Its rhythm is faint, hesitant. The markings spiral—fractals of tangled roots, broken instruments, a child holding a mask too large for their face.
“That which you could still become.”

You glance down. The floor beneath you bears the faded outline of a circle—scratched in haste, incomplete. It feels older than the pool, older than your memory.
It feels… waiting.

And as you hesitate, a gust of cold wind moves across your shoulder.

There are no doors behind you now.

Only choice.

> Pass through the left arch and confront what still frightens you.
> Enter the center arch and face what you once denied.
> Step through the right arch and follow the self not yet written.

>>6235212
>Enter the center arch and face what you once denied.

>>6235660
ACT II – Nocturne, page 18

You step through the center arch.

No sound accompanies the crossing—only a brief pressure behind your eyes, as though something inside you had been briefly named, then struck from the record.

The space beyond is not a hallway but a rotunda.

Circular. Cold. Echoless.

Seven alcoves line the room, each containing a single object—each familiar, though not quite remembered. A rusted key. A ribbon darkened by old blood. A small mirror turned to face the wall. A candle burned low. A locket sealed with wax. A cracked goblet. And in the final alcove, a journal—its cover clawed and spine half-torn.

You know you’ve seen them all before.

You know which one you touched. Or lost. Or gave away.
But your memory will not say which.

The air carries a faint metallic tang. Not blood. Not ink. Something older.

At the center of the rotunda stands a low marble pedestal. Empty. But worn by the shape of something that used to rest there.

The silence here isn’t hollow.
It’s listening.

> Examine the journal without opening it.
> Pick up the rusted key and hold it for a while.
> Look behind the turned mirror.
> Sit at the pedestal and wait.
> Walk the edge of the rotunda and whisper a question to the objects.

>>6236110
>Look behind the turned mirror.

>>6236234
ACT II – Nocturne, page 19

You approach the turned mirror.

Its back is scored and pitted from age, but one phrase is still visible, etched in tight, furious strokes:

“What you forget remembers you.”

You reach out to turn it.

But before you touch the frame, your reflection moves.

It’s already there—one step ahead—reaching into the lower corner of the glass. Not to turn it, but to retrieve something behind it. You watch yourself press fingers into the gouged-out space where the silvering has peeled away.

And then—only then—your hand moves to match.

The moment breaks.

You feel the rough stone behind the frame, find the hollow space, and pull.

A ring.

Black iron, simple and worn. Cold as regret.

Inside, an inscription, almost too faded to read:

“If you leave again, remember *me* this time.”

The mirror doesn’t resist as you turn it.

Your reflection now lags half a breath behind you, no longer reaching, just watching. Its eyes carry an expression you don’t remember learning how to wear.

You hold the ring in your palm.

It is not magic.
But it is *yours*.

> Sit at the pedestal and place the ring beside you.
> Whisper the inscriptions aloud, one after the other.
> Examine the journal now that your hands remember more.
> Trace the edges of the rotunda again and see if anything responds.