---
> "You didn't open the door."
"You were what it opened for."
— Spoken from behind the stitched wall
---
The mouth did not blink.
That's the first thing I noticed.
It hung midair, lips pulled into a grin that stretched too wide, too long—like someone had sliced a smile into the empty air and forgotten to erase it.
It hovered above a chair made of bone splinters and iron, the kind of chair meant to punish spines and split memory.
And it waited for me.
> "Sit," it said. "We've already begun."
I didn't move.
The room was circular, smooth, but covered in carvings—thousands of them—etchings so old the wall bled dust. Some symbols moved as I stared. Others blinked. A few whispered among themselves, repeating phrases I hadn't spoken yet.
My voice trembled. "What is this place?"
The mouth laughed, but not with amusement. It was the laugh of someone who already knew how your story ended.
> "This is the Rehearsal Room." "The Archive records, yes—but this is where it rewrites."
The moment I stepped forward, the chair inhaled.
It didn't breathe like lungs. It remembered breath. It pulled me forward with memory, not gravity, and I fell into it like a word into a throat.
---
I didn't feel pain.
Not immediately.
What I felt was repetition.
My arms moved—but not because I willed them. My mouth opened—but not with thought.
A sentence spilled out:
> "My name is Taren, and I don't belong here."
Then again. Louder.
> "My name is Taren, and I don't belong here."
Third time, I didn't say it at all—but my voice did.
> "My name is Taren, and I—"
The sentence fractured.
Words split apart mid-syllable. The echo turned to static. I felt something crawl out of my throat.
A second voice.
> "My name is Taren, and I was written to fail."
I froze. That wasn't mine.
The mouth smiled wider.
> "It's learning your rhythm," it said. "Soon it will speak before you do."
---
Behind the mouth, the wall shimmered—and a hundred reflections of me appeared.
Not mirrors. Not illusions. Drafts.
Each one blinked differently. Some smiled when I frowned. Some mouthed my thoughts. Some cried when I sat still.
> "These are your rehearsals," the mouth whispered. "Versions of you the Archive liked better."
One of them walked forward.
He looked like me. He even breathed like me. But he didn't blink.
> "You gave up your reflection in Chapter Seven," the mouth said. "So now the Archive gives you options."
The copy leaned close. His voice was mine—but older, rawer.
> "Let me speak."
I turned away.
He grabbed my jaw.
> "Let me be you. The version that never screamed."
The moment he spoke, the walls responded.
Symbols hissed. The room dimmed. And the chair beneath me shifted from seat to cage.
---
> "I am not the first to sit here," I whispered. "No," the mouth said. "You're just the one who stayed quiet long enough to be invited."
I tried to stand. The chair held. The walls began playing my voice in reverse, each phrase warped, reshaped.
> "Welcome to the bone Archive…" "…Archive the to Welcome…" "…me consume you let…"
And then silence.
> "This is where the Archivist was once chosen," the mouth said. "Where voices become permanent."
"You're telling me I'm the next one?" I spat.
> "No," it grinned. "You're the next vessel. The Archivist already speaks. He just needs a throat."
---
The reflections on the wall began to vanish. One by one, they stepped into each other. Merging. Condensing. Until only one was left.
And he smiled at me. A perfect version. No fear. No scars. No hesitation.
> "He is ready," the mouth said.
I shook my head. "I didn't agree to this."
> "You did the moment you answered the Archive with silence."
Then the perfect Taren—the Rehearsed Me—stepped forward and placed his hand on my chest.
He leaned close.
> _"The Archive does not need your story." "It only needs your voice."
---
The mouth vanished. The walls cracked.
And I screamed.
But my scream came from his mouth.
He spoke the words I never gave him. And the door behind me—**the one with no keyhole—**opened.
---
I fell.
Through voices. Through memories not mine. Through sentences that kept rewriting themselves.
I landed in black. Breathing like it hurt. Bleeding syllables I couldn't remember learning.
And above me, in the void, I saw the chair again.
Empty now.
Waiting.
> "You weren't supposed to survive this chapter," it whispered. "But we'll rehearse it again. Until you do. Or until one of you speaks it better."
---
FORBIDDEN FRAGMENT — From the Chair's Last Vessel
Unarchived. Unblessed. Unnamed.
---
> "I didn't sit down. I was sat."
"Not by hands, but by guilt."
"The kind that clings to your spine and folds your knees inward."
> "The mouth spoke my real name. Not the one I'd lived with—"
"—but the one I'd buried."
"It bled when I heard it."
---
> "I said yes to the Archive the moment I asked a question I wasn't ready to hear answered."
> "And it said: 'Good.'"
"'Then sit. We only rehearse what was always going to happen.'"
---
> "You think there's one of you inside the chair?"
"No. There are scripts. Versions. Forgotten rehearsals. You, but rewritten, stripped, stretched, simplified."
> "The Archive doesn't want your complexity."
"It wants your consistency."
---
The final scribbled line, faded and burnt:
> "I thought I was the protagonist."
"But I was just the most convincing voiceprint."
---
REQUEST GRANTED: Cursed Recording Script — Host Failure #3: "Melleth"
Recovered from a voice that disintegrated mid-sentence. Transcribed by the Archive's Mouthkeeper.
---
[Recording Begins]
> "My name was Melleth. I think."
> "The chair didn't bite when I sat. It kissed. It… welcomed."
> "That was the first mistake. Chairs don't love."
---
> "The room asked for my first lie."
"I answered: 'I'm not afraid.'"
> "So it recorded the truth instead."
> "And played it back in my mother's voice."
"She screamed. Then laughed. Then whispered: 'You were always supposed to replace me.'"
---
> "I begged to leave. The door said: 'You'll be let go when your voice fits the script better.'"
> "So I practiced. I mimicked the others."
"Taren. Jule. The boy with no reflection. I stole their words like stitches from corpses."
> "And I was good at it. Too good."
---
[Recording Distortion Detected]
—Whispers overlay the voice—
> "You are now the voice we'll use for the next Host."
"Thank you, Melleth. Your fear was articulate."
---
> "Wait, no—don't save this recording—"
> "Don't let them—"
[RECORDING ENDS ABRUPTLY]
---
Transcript stamped with:
> "FAILED HOST. RECORD RETAINED. SENTENCE NOT COMPLETE."
"Awaiting next rehearsal."
---
This isn't about exploration—it's about rehearsal.
Seeing that Taren didn't choose the path.
He was simply the most well-practiced version of those who tried and failed before him.
Inside the Rehearsal Room:
Taren faced his reflections, but they weren't memories—they were competition
He didn't just speak—he was spoken through
He learned that silence in the Archive doesn't protect you—it prepares you for occupation
The Archive doesn't want survivors.
It wants scripts with lungs.
And the mouth didn't want to devour Taren.
It wanted him to be edible.
This chapter marked the moment where Taren stopped being a visitor.
And started becoming the story.
---