They walked toward the tower.
The ground pulsed beneath their feet—
like a heartbeat,
like breathing roots.
The closer they got,
the more the buildings decayed in reverse:
Bricks unlaid,
steel beams unraveling upward,
until only thought remained.
Inside the tower, they found no stairs.
Only soil.
A single door stood at the center.
Painted black.
Marked with the spiral.
Alexis touched it.
It pulsed once—
and opened inward.
A garden.
But not of flowers.
Of people.
Planted waist-deep, motionless, whispering.
Their voices crawled through the air like vines:
> "I was a mother once."
"They erased my endings."
"I remember being forgotten."
"I remember you."
Amelia stepped back.
> "They're memories.
Rooted here."
> "No," Alexis said.
"They're us. Versions that never got to bloom."
A figure rose from the soil.
Eyes glowing.
Voice like rustling leaves:
> "Choose what you'll become.
A gardener?
Or just another seed?"