Ever since the Under-Village was born, geography no longer mattered.
Every womb that had once dreamed of Anna—alive or long buried—became a gateway below.
It started in Vietnam.
Then it spread to all lands steeped in ancient mother-worship:
The Muong, the Dao, the Thai,
The H'Mong, Cham, and E De.
Even ancient settlements erased from maps.
Then it reached places no one remembered—but memory still lived.
In Ban Tap village—once home to a three-rooted banyan said to bleed when cut—locals awoke to find tap water flowing thick and red, smelling of spoiled milk and amniotic fluid.
The village well was dry.
Instead, there was a lullaby.
Not a human voice, but a frequency that hovered between crying and breathing.
Villagers fled.
But the elders crawled into the rice fields, screaming in pain like women in labor.
From their backs grew new navels, from which strands of hair-root slithered into the soil.
At the same time, in the Siberian permafrost, a geneticist discovered that prehistoric embryonic cells had reactivated—no bacteria, no radiation.
In the lab, the fetal tissue sang lullabies.
Not with mouths—
But in the vibrational language of DNA.
When scientists ran the tones through spectrographic analysis, the result shocked them:
A lullaby in ancient Vietnamese, intertwined with a language that had been extinct for 6,000 years.
In India, beneath the Ganges, divers discovered a new freshwater stream, flowing upward from the deep rock.
The water was milky white and warm.
Anyone who touched it dreamed of a pale-skinned girl, black-eyed, holding a doll of ash and hair—humming a lullaby in their own mother's voice.
Many drowned in their sleep.
Those pulled from the river bore words scratched into their stomachs:
"Not enough sleep.
The vein's not open.
Remember more.
Let us finish being born."
The Memory Vein had awakened.
It was no tunnel.
No cavern.
But a biological memory circuit, a worldwide network of ancestral trauma, linking every being that had ever:
Been pregnant
Been aborted
Given birth
Been forgotten
Or sung a lullaby to someone they no longer remembered
Anna had only been the beginning.
Now, millions of children who looked exactly like her were appearing across the world—
in slums, in refugee camps, in ruins where prayers once echoed.
From the Central Highlands to the Congo,
from the Altai Mountains to the Amazon.
They didn't speak.
They didn't play.
They only sat,
and listened
and sang.
In the city of Pleiku, ten women were admitted to the hospital—all mysteriously pregnant.
None had partners.
Some had never had sex.
A few had been postmenopausal for decades.
Yet the ultrasounds revealed:
Fetuses with two hearts
Fetuses with eyes already watching—from the inside
When doctors tried to perform abortions, machines caught fire.
And the mothers vomited ash instead of blood.
One whispered, dazed:
"It's not in me.
I'm inside it."
In the deepest chamber of the Under-Village,
Anna had shed her human form.
She had become a living fetal mass, plugged into the ancient crust by thousands of umbilical cords, drawing memories from dreams.
Each heartbeat caused the earth to tremble.
Each breath made the planet bleed through its navel.
There was no stopping it.
Because what the Under-Village spawned needed no bone.
No blood.
No worship.
Only remembrance.
Just one lullaby.
One scar from childbirth.
One dream of a lost child—
And that was enough.
They would crawl out from that memory.
And bite their way into the living.
And when the earth at Ngoc Trach cracked wide open,
a tower of ash surged upward—carrying with it the final lullaby:
"Thirteen wombs, thirty thousand navels
Hundred thousand memories, a million births
The Earth is the Mother
The Human is the Vein
We are the Seed
And now… it's time to open the sky's belly."