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The corridor did not widen,  it multiplied, each step forward fractured into three:

one path of memory,
one of forgetting,
one of becoming.

Pilgrims chose without knowing, some walked in circles, others vanished into alcoves that had not existed moments before.

Thane paused before a glyph that resembled a cracked mirror.

“This one,” he whispered, “was meant for the name I buried beneath my own.”

Solenne approached, her form flickering between companion and witness. She did not speak, she listened with her entire presence.

The cracked mirror shimmered, revealing not a reflection, but a memory: Thane as a child, naming stars that would never be charted, his voice trembled and the glyph absorbed it.

A new alcove opened, inside, a pedestal held a vessel of saltwater and ash.