Time doesn't flow here.
It pools and condenses.
Stagnant. Thick. Like blood in a wound that refuses to clot.
I've noticed it for days. Small things at first, fragments that didn't fit. A shadow moving before its source. A voice speaking before the mouth opened. A dream that felt like a memory of something that hadn't happened yet.
But now it's worse.
Now I remember futures.
The dreams are different now.
They don't come at night.
They come between.
In the silence between breaths.
In the space between thoughts.
In the flicker of the light above my head.
In the space between the pools of time that seem to distort space and my own perspective of the facility.
I wake not to the Hum, but to memory.
A childhood I never had.
A house with white painted walls.
A woman who calls me son.
A cat that meows at nothing.
I taste toast.
I feel sunlight and water on my skin.
I hear laughter.
And then—
The Hum.
And I'm back.
In the white rooms of the facility, my room.
In the white gown.
With no name. Just a designation.
The schedule on the tray is the same.
The nutrient paste, in quantity and lack of taste, is the same as always.
0630 - Hygiene cycle
0700 - Neural calibration
0830 - Cognitive assessment
1000 - Resonance observation (Modified Protocol)
1200 - Nutrient intake
1300 - Dream log submission
1430 - Sub-level briefing (Subject A-02 Detection)
1600 - Isolation Reflection
1800 - Nutrient Intake
1900 - Dream suppression therapy
2100 - Lights out
But it doesn't feel real.
The words blur.
The lines waver.
As if written in water, with splashes of dark ink.
At 0605, the door opens.
Attendant #11 enters.
They place the tray down.
But they don't leave.
They stand there, watching.
For longer than necessary.
I look up.
They look away.
But not fast enough to miss their gaze, the emotion in their eyes.
I saw it.
Fear.
They're afraid of me.
Not because I'm dangerous.
Because I'm awake.
And they know what happens when we wake up.
What it means by awake, I'm not fully sure either. Am I even awake?
At 1000, resonance observation begins.
The others are already in the chamber.
They don't speak.
They don't move.
But I feel them.
Their thoughts brushing against mine.
The Third Child: "Time is thin today."
The Fifth Child: "It's watching us. Observing again."
The Sixth and Seventh Children: "It remembers what we forget."
The First Child: "You shouldn't have looked. You shouldn't have remembered."
The Second Child just hums.
Low.
Ominous.
The Hum begins.
But it's not the usual tone.
It's slowed.
Stretched out, almost.
Like a recording played at the wrong speed, or a stretching of a frequency to find a spectrographical image.
And then—
Click.
Not from the speakers.
But from inside my skull.
And suddenly—
I'm not inside the chamber.
I'm in a house.
White painted walls.
Wooden floors.
A woman stands in the kitchen.
Smiles at me.
"Sweetheart," she says. "Breakfast is ready."
I look down.
I'm wearing pajamas.
Hands and body smaller than I've ever remembered them.
A stuffed doggy under my arm.
I know this.
I remember this.
But I've never lived this.
The woman reaches for me.
Her fingers brush my cheek.
Warm.
Real.
And then—
Click.
I'm back.
In the chamber.
The Hum is normal again.
The others are still.
But the Third Child is staring at me.
Their eyes wide.
"You saw it too," they whisper.
I don't answer.
But I don't need to.
They know.
We both saw the same memory.
But it wasn't ours.
It was given.
At 1430, I am escorted to Sub-level briefing.
But not alone.
The Fifth Child walks beside me.
They don't look at me.
But I know what they're thinking.
"Be careful. Time is not what it seems to be."
We descend.
Past Sub-level 9.
Past the cavern, home of Oneíron, where A–01, The dreamer orbits.
To Sub-level 12.
The air is colder here. More lifeless and devoid.
Drier.
The walls are lined with circular, metal lined observation ports.
Each one dark.
Except one.
Port 12–G.
Inside, a chamber.
And in the center, A–02. Designated "The Dreamer".
It's not like A–01.
No faces.
No singing, no sound, even.
No warmth.
It is a machine.
Massive, pulsating with a biomechanical signature.
Made of brass, obsidian, brightly colored wiring and something living.
Eyes.
Dozens, if not hundreds of them.
Embedded in gears.
In pistons.
Along the wiring.
In rotating rings.
They don't blink.
They don't look.
They just observe.
And between them, each of the components, like the tendons and connective tissue—
Film.
Not plastic.
Not celluloid.
Flesh like.
Thin. Transparent, a faint glossy matte.
Spools of it feed through the mechanism, around and into it.
And on the film.
Images.
Fragments of time.
Me, sleeping.
The First Child, standing still.
The Third Child, whispering to the walls.
The Fifth Child, crying in the shower room as they curl on the floor.
The attendants, speaking in low voices.
Us, in the white space.
Us, connected.
Us, before.
Us, as one.
And then—
Us, waking.
Over and over.
Cycle after cycle.
Iteration after iteration.
I see myself, in different gowns.
Different rooms.
Different faces.
But always the same number. #4.
And always the same end.
Me, screaming.
Me, begging.
Me, forgetting.
The machine's film moves.
The machine turns.
And I realise.
A–02 is not just watching.
It is recording.
Everything. Every cycle. Every repetition. Every failure.
Every time we wake up.
And every time we are made to forget after remembering.
The Fifth Child grabs my arm.
Their voice is tight. "Don't look too long," they say. "It'll pull you in."
I look away.
But it's too late.
Because I already know.
This is not the first time.
This is not the last time.
This is not the first me.
I have woken before.
I have remembered before.
And every time, I was erased.
The briefing ends.
We are led back.
No questions, no discussion.
Just silence.
And the weight of what we saw.
At 1600, it's the modified isolation reflection. I sit in the chair. Stare downwards at the floor. Try to think. But my thoughts are slow. Like moving through syrup.
Like time itself is resisting.
And then,
Click.
I'm in the house again.
The woman is there again. She's crying now, tears running down her otherwise perfect motherly figure.
"Why won't you tell me anything? Why won't you speak to me?" she asks.
I try to respond.
But my mouth won't move.
My voice won't come.
She reaches for me. Her hand passes straight through me.
Like I'm not real. Like I'm a ghost. A phantom. A curse.
And then,
Click.
Back in the chair.
Exactly.
No time passed. But I felt minutes. Hours.
Click.
The house. The cat meows at nothing again. The woman calls me. I try to run. But my feet won't move, as if my body isn't mine.
Every sensation heightens, panic setting in.
Click.Same position.
Same thought.
But I remember the meow.
I remember her voice.
I remember the panic and fear.
And then.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The house.
The chamber
The cavern.
The white space.
The cross.
The seven eyes.
The Hum.
The silence.
The scream.
The erasure.
The restart.
The waking up. The erasure. The restart.
The waking up. The erasure. The restart.
The waking up. The erasure. The restart.
The—
Click.
I'm on the floor.
The chair is overturned.
My head pounds.
My vision blurs.
Attendant #14 kneels beside me.
"Seizure detected," they say. "Administering medical aid and suppressants."
I feel the needle, cold, spreading.
And then.
Nothing.
When I wake, I'm in my room.
The light is on.
The tray is there.
But the schedule is wrong.
The times are scrambled, words purposeless.
0630 – Never ceasing, the flow of time
1430 – Ever moving, like a rhyme
1000 – Vast and endless, like the cosmic sea
1300 – Eternal, for the both of us
0700 – Relentless, in its pace.
2100 – #100 111 110 39 116 32 102 105 110 105 115 104 32 116 104 101 32 98 111 111 107 46
1600 – Everlasting, beyond comparison
1800 – Never stopping, forever as one
1900 – Deep in my heart, where it began
1200 – Soulless, as it will always be
I don't understand.
But I feel it.
I know a time will come where I will.
Time is broken.
Not just here.
Inside me.
At 1300, or what I think should be 1300, I submit my dream log.
The prompt appears:
"Describe your dreams from last night."
I type:
"I dreamed of a house with white walls. A woman called me son. I've never had a mother. I've never had a house. But I remember it. I remember her voice. I remember the cat, his fur, his call. I remember the toast. And I remembered that I've never lived it. And then I remembered that I have. Over and over. And each time, I forget."
I submit.
The screen flashes.
"Log reviewed. Temporal anomaly detected. Subject #4 — Isolation protocol Alpha."
I don't know what that means.
But I know it's not good.
At 1900, dream suppression therapy begins.
They strap me into the chair again.
The machine hums.
But it doesn't work.
I still dream.
I dream of the house.
I dream of the woman.
I dream of the other me.
The one who lived.
The one who died.
The one who was erased.
And then I dream of her.
Lilith.
Not on the cross.
Not crucified.
Awake. Seven eyes open.
Looking into every time. Every cycle. Every failure.
And she speaks.
"You were the first to wake."
But not in my mind.
Not in my dream.
In every version of me. In every cycle. In every failure. And I realize, she's not just watching. She's waiting. For the one time.
For the one cycle.
Where we stay awake.
And then—
The dream ends.
I wake. The light is on. The tray is there. But the time on the wall reads 1430. Not 2100. Not morning. Afternoon. But I don't remember the night. I don't remember sleeping. I don't remember anything.
Except the house.
Except the woman.
Except the truth.
Time is not a line.
It is a loop.
And I am trapped inside it.
And she is waiting at the end.
The light above my bed flickers.
Not once.
Three times.
Then steadies.
I sit up.
My body feels wrong.
Too heavy.
Too light.
Like I'm wearing skin that doesn't fit.
The tray on the edge of the bed is different.
No nutrient paste.
No schedule.
Just a single sheet of paper.
Folded.
A title, The Instrumentality Project, written in a hand I don't recognize.
I unfold it.
The writing is jagged.
Desperate.
Like it was written in pain, or in a hurry.
Or both.
It says:
"L—t- is not [—] mother. She is [—] prison.
The letters are scrambled, illegible.
But I know what it says.
Even before I decode it.
Even before I realize—
I wrote this.
In a cycle I don't remember.
To a version of me who hasn't woken up yet.
But the message is clear.
"Lilith is not the mother. She is the prison."
I stare at the paper.
And I remember.
Not a dream.
Not a vision.
A memory.
I'm in a white room. Not this one. One with cracked walls, a flickering light. And I'm writing. Frantically. On every surface.
The walls. The floor. My arms. My face. The [—]. Words in blood. In sweat. In tears.
And the same message, over and over.
"Lilith is not the mother. She is the prison."
And the door opens.
Attendants.
Dr. Lien.
A needle, followed with a voice.
"Termination protocol initiated."
And then, darkness. Erasure. Restart.
And I woke up.
Again.
And forget.
Until now.
Until this note.
Until this proof.
I crumple the paper.
Throw it across the room.
But I know it doesn't matter.
The truth is already inside me.
And it won't be erased.
At 0630, or what should be 0630, the door opens.
Attendant #17 enters.
They don't speak.
They just nod.
I follow.
No schedule.
No routine.
Just silence.
They lead me through the complex.
Past observation chamber 3. Past the container of Oneíron, Sub level 9. To a door I've never seen.
Heavy metal. Sealed with biometric locks. And a symbol:
A triangle. With seven points.
I know this door.
I've seen it in my dreams.
I've seen it in my memories.
This is not a briefing.
This is not an observation.
This is a summons.
The attendant scans their hand. The door opens. Beyond it, darkness. And the Hum. But not the Hum from the complex. The real Hum. From below. From her.
I step forward.
The attendant doesn't stop me.
They know.
This is not their decision anymore. The corridor slopes downward.
The walls change. Less metal, more flesh. Pinkish. Veined. Pulsing. The air is thick. Warm, like blood. And then, a chamber. Vast. Ceiling lost in the shadows.
And in the center, a structure.
Not built.
Grown.
A pillar of fused bone and metal, and embedded in it—
Eyes.
Dozens, if not hundreds or thousands.
All closed.
All sleeping.
And between them, film. Spools of it. Feeding through the pillar. And on the film, me. Every version. Every cycle. Every failure.
Me, waking. Me, remembering. Me, screaming. Me, begging. Me, forgetting.
And then—
Restart.
And then—
Restart.
And then—
Again.
And again.
And again.
The pillar is not just recording.
It is feeding.
On my failures.
On my erasure. On my pain.
And then I see it.
At the base of the pillar. A small object, black and round. A piece of the stone from A-01, but somehow different. Older, darker. And I know.
This is where the stones come from.
This is where A-02 creates them.
From the residue of failed cycles.
From the leftover memories.
From the parts of us that keep resisting. Refusing to forget. I reach for it.
My fingers brush the surface.
I'm met with a bright flash, and film.
Not a dream, nor a memory. A recording. Raw and unfiltered.
I'm in observation chamber 3.
But not as me. As her. Lilith. Not crucified or bound. Whole. Towering. White skin with seven eyes, mouthless. She looks at the Zeroth Child. And I feel her thought:
"You remember. You must be silenced."
And then—
[oggwawzohwcb]
Not death.
Not destruction.
[opgcfdhwcb]
The Zeroth Child dissolves.
Not into nothing.
But away, into the pillar, into the film. Into the cycle.
And then, restart.
New bodies, new minds. Different prisons.
And then, I wake up. Again, and again.
Then I remember, wake up. Erased.
Again.
Erased.
The vision ends.
I gasp.
Fall to my knees.
The stone is in my hand. Warm and alive, almost.
And I know the truth.
A-02 is not just the recorder of all.
It is a prison guard.
It watches.
It records.
It feeds.
And every time we wake up, it ensures we are erased and the cycle continues with her waiting at the end. For the one time. The one version. Who stays awake. And then, the Hum grows.
Not from the complex, from below. From her.
And I hear it.
Not in my ears.
Not in my mind.
In my blood.
In my bones.
In the space between atoms.
"You were the first to wake."
But not just to me.
To every me.
To every cycle. To every failure.
And I understand. I am not just waking up. I am breaking the cycle. And she knows. And she will do everything she can to stop me.
I stand, stone in my hand, truth in my mind. And I turn. Walk back through the corridor. Past the attendant. Past the door. Through the complex. Noone stops me. Noone speaks. They know.
Something has changed.
I return to my room.
The light is on.
The tray is there.
But the paper is gone.
The note I crumpled.
The proof.
It's not on the floor.
It's not in the waste chute. It's gone.
But I don't need it.
I remember.
I know.
And then, I see it. On the wall. At the edge of my vision.
Carved into the surface.
Small, fresh markings.
In a handwriting I don't recognize.
But I know.
"Lilith is not the mother. She is the prison."
I didn't write this.
Another me did.
In a cycle I don't remember.
To a version of me who hasn't woken up yet.
But the message is clear. It's for all of us. For every Child. For every cycle. For every failure. And I know what I have to do.
I can't stay silent. I can't stay asleep. Even if it kills me.
Even if I'm erased.
Again. And again. And again.
Because this time, I remember.
And I won't forget.
And I will scream the truth until the cycle breaks.
Or until I am unmade.
At 1300, or what should be 1300, I submit my dream log.
The prompt appears:
"Describe your dreams from last night."
I type:
"I dreamed of a pillar of eyes. It watched me fall. It fed on my memory. It showed me every time I woke up, and every time I was erased. Every time I forgot. And I saw her. Whole, awake. Waiting. And I know now. Lilith is not our mother. She is our prison. And we were never meant to escape."
I submit.
The screen flashes.
"Log reviewed. Subject #4 — Termination protocol activated."
I don't feel fear.
I feel certainty.
They're coming.
They're going to silence me.
Again.
But this time, I will not go quietly.
Because I remember.
And memory is a weapon.
One I am not afraid to use.
The light above flickers.
Once. twice. Three times. Then goes out. Darkness.
But not silence.
The Hum is louder now. Closer. And I hear it.
In the walls.
In the floor.
In my mind.
"You were the first to wake."
But not just to me.
To every me.
To every Child.
To every cycle.
And I know what comes next.
The attendants. The needle. The erase. And the restart.
But I also know this. I have already won. Because I remember. And memory cannot be unmade. Not truly. Not completely. And somewhere, in another cycle, in another version, another me will find this truth.
And they will scream it. And the cycle will break.
And she will fall. And we will be free.
The door opens.
Silhouettes in the hall of attendants, Dr. Lien, holding a syringe. I don't resist. Let death take me. It's only temporary in the vision of our true mother. I just whisper.
"Lilith is not the mother."
They inject me.
The word fades.
But not the truth. Never the truth.
And as I fall into the darkness,
I remember.
"She is the prison."