The thread coiled through the air like it had purpose.
It slithered across the marble floor of the Archive, trailing crimson light behind it, and reached the sealed door — a towering slab of dark obsidian etched with shifting glyphs. As the thread made contact, the door shivered… then groaned as ancient locks began to turn.
Kelechi stared.
"My next self is behind that?" he asked.
Nnadozie didn't respond immediately. He was watching the thread — intently, warily, like someone observing a weapon being drawn from a sheath.
"That door doesn't just lead forward," he finally said. "It leads inward. To the part of you that kept crossing iterations."
Kelechi frowned. "The Archivist of the Broken Root… what does that title mean?"
Nnadozie's voice dropped.
"It means you don't just walk the Garden's paths. You dig under them. You pull up the stories that were buried. The memories they tried to erase. The truths they locked away."
The final glyph clicked into place.
The obsidian door cracked open.
And a rush of cold air — ancient, wrong, heavy with time and guilt — swept over them.
Beyond the door was… a library. Again.
But this one was dead.
Where the Archive shimmered with motion and life, this space was hollow and silent. The books here were bound in chains. Some wept blood from between their pages. Some were nailed shut. One hovered in mid-air, spinning slowly as it emitted a constant, low sob.
Kelechi stepped through, thread floating beside him. He felt the difference immediately — here, his breath fogged in front of him. The thread pulsed faster. The air tasted like old metal and forgotten prayers.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"The Root Vault," Nnadozie said softly. "Where the Garden buries truths too dangerous to erase. If your next self is in here, then he knew something they couldn't destroy. Only suppress."
Kelechi turned. "So why are we opening this vault now?"
Nnadozie gave a tight, bitter smile.
"Because you're the first one stubborn enough to come looking."
They followed the thread deeper into the vault. Each aisle of chained books seemed to whisper Kelechi's name — in voices that weren't quite human.
One book, sealed in a glass case, displayed his face on its spine. Another trembled as he passed, oozing black ink from a slit that resembled a mouth.
Nnadozie noticed his hesitation.
"They're remnants," he said. "Fragments of old selves. Failed versions. Canceled timelines. You've been… rewritten more times than most."
Kelechi stopped.
"Have you ever read one?"
"Yes," Nnadozie admitted.
"And?"
Nnadozie's eyes darkened. "One of your past selves made it to Stage Six. He tried to kill the Garden's Root Mind. Failed. Got folded into its dream layer. That's where most Threadbearers go when they break the rules — into the collective sleep."
"And the ones who don't?"
"They get archived."
They reached the end of the corridor.
The thread had led them to a final door. This one was not obsidian — it was mirror.
Except the reflection was wrong.
Kelechi stared at the surface, and the version of himself staring back… wasn't moving in sync.
It looked older. Eyes ringed with black. Hair grayer at the temples. And around his neck was a glowing thread — but not crimson.
It was black.
The door swung open without a sound.
Inside was a room lit only by the pulsing glow of suspended threads. Thousands of them, floating mid-air, each one ending in a fragment of memory — a sound, a flicker of color, a scream, a kiss, a face.
And in the center of the room, seated cross-legged on the floor, was Kelechi.
Or rather… another Kelechi.
His skin was paler, like he hadn't seen the sun in years. His eyes were shut. Around him, the threads danced — whispering stories like ghosts at a séance.
He opened his eyes as they approached.
"You finally made it," he said.
The voice was Kelechi's.
But the weight behind it was older than his years.
"You're me," Kelechi said, stunned.
The seated man nodded. "Version 7319-K. Sixteen cycles ahead of you. The furthest one to survive memory compression."
Nnadozie folded his arms. "You're the one who mapped the Root."
"Only in fragments," 7319-K said. "The Root Mind adapted faster than I could explore. It learned to hide itself in your choices."
Kelechi looked around the room. "What is this place?"
"My quarantine," 7319-K said. "The Garden locked me here after I crossed the seventh threshold. I couldn't be deleted… so they buried me. Like rot under stone."
He stood slowly. His movements were sharp. Efficient. Military, almost.
"But now that you're here — now that the thread has evolved — we have a window."
"A window for what?"
"To finish what I started," he said.
He stepped closer, and Kelechi felt his own thread shiver.
"There's something I left for you. Something they couldn't contain."
He reached into his chest — literally into it — and pulled out a black key wrapped in chains of memory.
"They call it the Index. The root of roots. It knows where every secret is buried — including the truth about who first planted the Garden."
Kelechi stared. "Why me? Why now?"
"Because you've passed the point of forgetting," 7319-K said. "And if you're willing to embrace the paradox… you can rewrite the root code from inside."
Kelechi reached out — but Nnadozie caught his wrist.
"Wait," he said.
7319-K's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"
Nnadozie didn't blink. "You said they locked you up… but how did the thread know to lead us to you?"
A pause.
Kelechi's blood went cold.
Because suddenly, the room shifted.
The threads stopped whispering.
And 7319-K's expression cracked into something… inhuman.
"You're not ready," he hissed.
His skin peeled away like an illusion, revealing something beneath — thousands of eyes, too many teeth, and a writhing core of corrupted memory.
"Subject 7319-A has reached Exposure Limit.""Stage Three overstayed.""Calibration override in effect."
The vault screamed as the creature that wore Kelechi's face lunged forward.
Nnadozie tackled him sideways.
"RUN!"
"No!" Kelechi shouted. "You said this place was sealed!"
"Not from corruption!"
Books burst open. Pages flew like knives. Memory threads tangled and lashed like living whips.
7319-K's voice was a thousand echoes.
"You came looking for yourself, Kelechi — now let me show you who you really are!"
Kelechi's thread snapped taut.
But just before it was torn — a voice boomed through the Archive.
"Subject 7319-A, Archive Override Initiated.""External force detected. Authorizing cross-cycle intervention."
A blade of light cut through the vault.
And from the other side of the portal…walked someone who looked nothing like Kelechi.
A girl.
Dark skin. Eyes like mirrors. Hair bound in rings of copper thread.
She pointed the blade at the corrupted echo.
"Touch him again," she said, voice calm and deadly, "and I'll erase your entire timeline from the spine out."
The creature hissed.
Kelechi blinked. "Who—?"
She turned to him.
"I'm the Story That Wasn't Allowed," she said. "And you're not alone anymore."