The mirror opened into a corridor of shifting lights and incomplete thoughts. Walls pulsed like breathing skin. Echo stumbled forward, voices tugging at him like tides.
"Don't forget us," they said.
"I don't remember you," he answered.
Kira emerged beside him, fractured and flickering. "This is where they store pain. It loops here, endlessly."
Faces emerged from the walls—his mother's, his child's, his own—morphed into masks of fear.
"Your soul isn't a single thread," she whispered. "It's a weave, and every break creates a ghost."
Echo drew the blade and sliced through a shadow. It screamed, and light spilled out.
Inside the pain, a piece of truth waited.
He picked it up.
And remembered the first time he died.