Threadless : A growing novel

"Loops don't collapse from forgetting.

They collapse when someone remembers too much."

Rin blinked.

The walls were too symmetrical.

Even the dust on the floor had a twin.

"This place feels off," Aro said, voice low.

They were standing in a classroom that mirrored the one they knew — but every object was reversed. Words on the wall were written backwards. The chalkboard had equations they hadn't been taught yet. Even the sky outside the window was an inverted color gradient.

"This isn't a hallucination," Rin said. "It's stitched.

But it's old. Like it was forgotten on purpose."

Aro walked past a bookshelf, his hand hovering over a cracked journal. It looked exactly like the one he kept in his bag — except this one had his real name written on the inside cover.

He hadn't used that name since—

"Aro," Rin whispered, eyes wide.

She pointed to the reflection on the window.

They both had shadows.

But the reflections weren't moving.

"This loop doesn't mirror us," Rin said. "It remembers who we used to be."

She took a step forward. Her reflection did not.

"I've been here before."

Suddenly, a sound broke the air — not like a chime or bell.

Like glass snapping.

The world around them glitched once, violently, and the walls began to shimmer, as if someone had tried to erase them but stopped halfway.

"It's collapsing," Aro said.

"No — it's waking up," Rin corrected.

From behind them, a voice echoed. Familiar. Not present.

"When the mirror fails, you have to choose."

They turned.

No one was there.

Just a symbol forming in the chalk dust midair:

TW//01 — DO NOT RUN

The loop began to disintegrate.

"We need to exit," Aro said.

"No," Rin said quietly. "I want to hear it break."

She reached out and placed her hand on the wall.

It felt warm — as if something on the other side was breathing.

And then she heard it.

A whisper. Soft. Almost afraid.

"Don't become what they made to replace you."