Amelie’s heart slows until she can hear each tiny breath she takes, soft and careful in the quiet room. She tilts her head to get a good look at the easel in front of her now, the portrait being finished. It is her face, her bright blonde hair falling just the way it always does, the gentle curve of her cheeks, the thoughtful little crease between her brows.

  It is all there. All of her. Except her eye… they're wrong. They are completely black. No pupil, no white, no little spark of light resting inside them. Just two dark circles set neatly into a face that looks almost sweet.

  None of the others have this feature, she thinks quietly. Her fingers press to the canvas, almost apologetically, but the paint does not smudge. It feels dry beneath her touch, smooth and polished, as if it has been waiting for her.

  She steps back, then sways gently to the left… then to the right, testing it like a child might test a reflection in a mirror. The eyes do not change. They remain still, round, and perfectly placed. And yet, she cannot help but feel as though they are keeping up with her, watching her.

  She lingers there a moment longer, studying the face as though it might explain itself if she is patient enough. Paint does not simply appear. Someone must have stood here. Someone must have mixed the colors, chosen the brush, decided how her hair would fall, and how her mouth would rest. Her gaze drifts over the empty corners of the room, to the doorway, to the shadowed ceiling, as if she might catch a glimpse of them lingering somewhere just out of sight.

  What kind of person would do something like this? The thought drifts through her gently. Some sort of creep, maybe, hiding in corners and watching when she does not notice. The idea makes her shoulders pull in just slightly, her fingers curling into the sleeves of her shirt. Or perhaps… something kinder. A guardian angel with careful hands and too much time, painting her the way they see her when she cannot see herself at all. Her grip loosens at that, though her chest remains tight, and she takes another small step back from the canvas.

  A sound breaks the quiet.

  Heavy and distant. A loud thud slapping against brittle wood.

  Amelie looks up, searching for a clue for where the noise is coming from. The dark, vast landscape of the library feels like it shrinks as every step draws nearer. She takes a deep breath, but feels as if no air enters her lungs.

  Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.

  The sound ricochets through the library, striking the walls and returning to her in uneven echoes. Somewhere to her left, a tall shelf tilts, hesitates, and then crashes to the floor in a burst of dust and scattered pages. From the settling haze, something rises. It is tall, too tall for the space it moves through, and its eyes catch what little light there is, glimmering like polished glass. They are empty and black, sweeping slowly across the room as though turning pages in search of something misplaced.

  When it parts its mouth, rows of sharp white teeth gleam against the dark. The sight sends a thin, icy thread down her spine. A smell follows it, thick and sour, curling through the air and pressing against the back of her throat until she has to fight the urge to cough.

  She hops down the stairs, scurrying as fast as she can without making a noise to the desk… but spindly legs block the path in front of her. She stumbles back with a small gasp and loses her footing, dropping hard against a bookshelf. The wood presses cold against her spine as she pulls her knees in close, her hands clasped tight in front of her chest to keep them from trembling too loudly. She squeezes her eyes shut for half a second, then forces them open again, barely breathing, hoping the silence around her will be enough.

  It screams, extremely high and thin, sharp enough that Amelie’s hands fly to her ears. The sound climbs higher still, stretching into something almost metallic, like glass trembling just before it shatters. The shelves quiver with it. The air itself seems to vibrate…

  And beneath the scream, woven into it as a thread pulled too tight, there is laughter. A dark, grinding, breathy giggle that rises and falls in uneven little bursts, as though the creature is amused by the pain it causes. The two sounds twist together until they are impossible to separate, the shriek dipping suddenly into that awful, childish mirth before spiking upward again.

  The shelf shakes as it pushes by, threatening to fall over and crush her at any moment. Books rain down from the tilted shelf, most hitting and making a clapping noise as the hardback leather collides with wood. One of the books lay half opened… a bright white emanating from it, pulling reality inside… Amelie's body starts to turn a bright, lunar white color, being separated, painlessly, piece by piece as the light targets her…

  She notices it grabs onto the Cryptwalker as well…

  The shelf shakes as it pushes by, threatening to topple at any moment. Books spill from the tilted edge, striking the floor with dull little claps as hardback leather meets wood. One lands half open. From the pages comes a bright white glow, not quite like light but like something reaching out, pulling at the edges of the room. Amelie’s hands tremble before she realizes it. Her fingers curl inward, trying to still themselves, but the shaking only grows. The color drains from her skin, turning it a pale lunar white, and she presses her back harder against the bookshelf as if it might anchor her. Her breathing quickens, small and careful, each inhale shorter than the last as though the air itself has grown thin.

  She notices it catches the Cryptwalker as well. The glowing pages stretch toward the creature, threads of light latching onto its spindly form. For a moment, its outline wavers, like ink bleeding on wet paper. Amelie’s eyes widen. Her shoulders tighten, pulling in as if making herself smaller might keep her safe. She does not speak. She cannot. The scream and giggle still echo, though thinner now, swallowed by the brightness. She swallows, slow and careful, watching the light work, her hands pressed flat against the bookshelf behind her. The trembling does not stop. It starts to hurt a bit as she thinks she screams, but no noise or feeling comes out.

  Then it stops.

  She blinks repeatedly, feeling water pour out of the bottom of her crust, feeling eyes, and the action makes her shoulders shake as if something heavy is leaving her. The blackness slowly fades, replaced by blurry, bright sunlight that stings at first, making her squint and turn her head as though the world itself is too much to look at.

  Her palms sink into soft, spiny green grass, and she curls her fingers slightly, testing the texture, feeling small and strangely safe in the contact. The lullaby of birds singing brings comfort to her heart, and she realizes her breathing has slowed, no longer short and tight but gentle and steady. The flaps of beautiful butterfly wings invigorate her with joy, a tiny smile touching her lips as the quiet happiness of the moment washes over her.

  She looks around, the world stretching out in a wide grassy pasture, open and quiet in a way that feels both comforting and strange. The only structure in view is a large stone maze, tall enough to block sight of what might lie beyond it, its old walls tangled with creeping vines and patches of moss. Nature has taken pieces of it, softening the edges, yet the maze still stands like a question without an answer. She wraps her arms around herself, fingers brushing her sleeves as she notices there are no other hints about where she is or what this place might mean.

  She steps into the maze, the stone walls rising up on either side of her like quiet guardians. The air inside feels different, cooler, as though the sunlight outside is watching from a distance. She turns left, then right, her footsteps soft against the old ground, and each corridor looks the same as the last. Stone walls, moss in small patches, the faint echo of her own movement. No markings. No clues. Just the maze repeating itself, patient and unchanging.

  She pauses at one corner and looks both ways, hoping for something new, but the paths are twins, mirrors of each other. Her hands tighten slightly at her sides, then lift to hug herself again, a small motion that makes the space feel a little less empty even if it changes nothing about the maze.

  She walks through the maze for what feels like a long time, the stone walls always looking the same, and the turns leading to more of the same quiet corridors. Her footsteps make small sounds against the ground, but nothing answers them. No new markings, no change in the air, no hint that she is getting closer to anything. The walls rise up beside her like patient watchers, and the silence between them grows heavier. She starts to breathe a little faster, her hands curling into loose fists at her sides before she presses them against her arms again. Her brows knit together, and she swallows, feeling the first sting of frustration. The maze is not helping her understand. It is only repeating itself, and that makes her chest tighten in a way that is starting to feel like sadness. She wants something to change, even a small sign, but the paths remain the same.

  It feels like hours. The sun slips lower, painting the sky in soft colors, but the maze looks exactly the same. Nothing has changed, and the quiet makes her eyes sting as she realizes she still does not know where to go.

  She falls to the brown dirt, the ground rough beneath her, but not enough to dull the way her body shakes. Tears come hard, and she covers her face, shoulders trembling as the quiet of the maze presses in from all sides. It is not just being lost anymore; it is the weight of nothing changing and the hours slipping away on endless paths. She cries, small and helpless, wishing for something, anything, to answer her.

  She looks to her side and jumps, spotting the small slug that has come out of a tiny cave-like hole in the wall. The opening is just big enough for it, a little dark pocket where it must have been living, and now it sits in the entrance as if guarding it. Its face seems strangely reactive, eyes shifting and watching her, the expression looking grumpy in the way only a slug can look grumpy. She feels the sudden surprise still in her chest, then curiosity, noticing how the little creature seems to observe her as much as she observes it.

  "Hmmm… stop crying outside my house. You wake family. Rude,” it screams, wiggling up to her as if it's ready to square up. "Maze is nothing to cry over. Walk and walk and walk. If walking too hard for you, maybe legs were meant for others."

  "I'm… sorry," she struggles to speak, taken aback by the rude slug.

  “Hmmm… door face sky soup,” the slug mutters, wobbling in a small, indignant circle. Its little eyes blink at her, slow and judgmental. “Family hears soup. Not good. Very bad soup. Makes them think about shoes.”

  “I… what?” Amelie squeaks, blinking. She scratches her head without thinking, embarrassed and still shaken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Hmmm… meaning is slippery. Like me. Like thoughts. Like wall juice.” The slug pauses, considering this deeply. “Doorway. Yes. You stand in doorway. Always doorway. Hard to leave doorway when you believe it is room.”

  Amelie frowns, glancing around. The small cave in the wall, the little home the slug crawled from, sits right beside her. Beyond it is the maze. Stone corridors. Empty paths. She swallows. “I… I thought I was already in the maze.”

  “Hmmm… you are. And not. Both. Neither. Maze is idea. Idea has doorways. You stepped through one. Now you think you understand.” The slug wiggles its head, looking very proud of saying something confusing. “You do not. No human does. Even me. Especially me.”

  Amelie stares at it. “So… I’m lost?”

  “Hmmm… lost is strong word. Overused. Like shoes. Everyone says lost. But lost implies you knew where you were. Did you?” The slug leans in slightly, its grumpy little face close. “I think not. If you knew, you would not cry outside my house. Rude.”

  She swallows, hands twisting together. “How do I get out of the maze?” she asks, voice small.

  The slug stares at her, slow blinks, then makes a tiny grumpy sound. “Hmmm… get out? Funny. You not in maze. Not yet. Doorway is before maze. Very simple. Even slug child understands.”

  Amelie frowns. That makes no sense. She looks past the slug into the small cave hole in the wall, watching as it wiggles back inside. Inside is not just dirt and darkness. It is a tiny little home. Bits of soft moss are arranged like cushions, a small pebble shaped almost like a table, and tiny scraps of something shiny that catch the light like decorations. The slug pushes a little piece of shell against the wall as if hanging a picture, then arranges another bit of moss just so, making the space feel lived in and strangely cozy. It is a cute little slug house, small and quiet, and the sight of it makes her pause, unsure why something so tiny and simple feels important.

  The slug pokes its head back out, eyes narrowing in a very serious way. “Hmmm… staring again. No good. House private. Family private. Decorations private.” It wiggles inside its little home and pulls the tiny door shut with a sharp little slam. The sound is small but firm, like a statement. “You should respect privacy,” it mutters from behind the door. “Or I will be very grumpy. More grumpy than usual.”

  Amelie huffs a deep breath, straightening her posture, as she sets her gaze down the maze again. She walks down each aisle, a dozen more, seeing the same sights, and feeling more tired as each step draws to an end. The moon has fully taken over the sky, but oddly enough, its light is enough to illuminate the maze's edges.

  She looks down to the right, seeing the slugs' little door sticking out like a sore thumb in the wall. Well, at least a slug… she has been walking for what feels like ages now, it probably isn't the same slug. She falls down to her knees, sinking into the dirt, as she melodically taps on the slug's door with her pointer finger.

  "Why awake me?" The same slug stumbles back outside. "I have small slug, you know?" It walks up, looking up at her, just as angry as before.

  "Can you help me?" Amelie asks quietly, putting her face close to the wall.

  "Probably not. I am slug," it says, starting to go back inside.

  "Please?" Amlie shuts the slug's door with her finger, blocking it from going back inside.

  "You block me?! Dumb person. Big. Very dumb." It reluctantly faces her again.

  "Why… how are you down every single path?" Amelie asks softly.

  "I am not. There is no path. Only one door." The slug wiggles. "Dumb person."

  “Close eyes,” the slug says, wobbling in a tiny circle. “Very important. Eyes are trouble. See too much. Think too much. Bad for maze. Bad for slug.” It pauses, as if considering this deeply. “Then count… hmm… count nothing. Zero. No numbers. Numbers make head hurt. When zero finished, door will be where it should be. Or not. Hard to say. I am slug.” It stares at her with its grumpy little face, waiting as if this explanation makes perfect sense.

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  "O-ok…" Amelie stands back up, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. She hears the slug giggle as it shuts its door, disappearing back into its house. She opens her eyes, releasing a sigh as she notices nothing has changed… Until she looks closer, and her eyes dart from the slug's house to the right, where she sees another small hole.

  There is no door to this hole, and the inside doesn't go any farther than the surface hole. She reaches her finger inside, not feeling anything in there, but the walls start to rumble as soon as she does. She leans back, the wall opening a large doorway that shows no signs of being there before, showcasing another maze on the other side.

  "Don't come back!" The slug, now back outside its house, shouts at her as she passes through.

  The wall draws shut behind her once she's in, acting as if there was never a door to begin with. She sees another maze, but this one has no stone walls; instead, tall thorny bushes stand all around her. The sun starts to rise back into the sky, greeting the moon halfway, as light fills the maze once more.

  She walks through the maze, taking a left where the path bends and then a right where the thorn walls narrow, her footsteps quiet against the ground. The air feels the same at every turn, the corridors repeating themselves, until she steps around another corner and stops, her eyes narrowing in wonder.

  A line of small segmented beings moves down the path, each carrying a single stone in its claws. Their bodies click and shift as they walk, a slow and practiced procession, the rhythm of it feeling older than the maze itself. The stones are rough and gray, held with careful precision, and the creatures hum as they go, a low vibrating sound that drifts through the air like a chant. Their shells are dark and uneven, like weathered bone or broken stone, with thin ridges and cracks that catch the light in strange ways. They do not hurry. They do not look around. They simply march forward in line, each step part of something they understand, and Amelie does not.

  She follows them, stepping lightly from path to path as the line of small segmented beings moves deeper into the maze. The corridors narrow then open into a small circular area, a quiet space where the thorn walls give way to bare ground. Here, many of the creatures work together, striking their stones against larger slabs with steady, rhythmic taps. The sound is constant, like tiny hammers, as rough edges are worn away and the stones slowly become neat squares.

  They arrange the finished pieces in tidy stacks, each one aligned with careful precision, and the humming never stops, a low and purpose-driven song that fills the space. Amelie watches from the edge of the circle, unsure if she should move closer. She hesitates at the edge of the circle, arms wrapping lightly around herself as she watches the tiny workers continue their careful, unbothered tasks.

  A separate group of the small segmented beings works along the wall, pulling at the thorny growth with tiny claws. The thorns snap and fall, leaving bare gaps, and the creatures move with steady purpose, fitting stone bricks into the openings. Each brick clicks into place, smoothed and aligned, replacing the wild edges with straight lines of gray. They hum as they work, a low vibrating sound that mixes with the others in the maze, and the wall changes piece by piece, becoming something stronger and more ordered where the thorns once grew.

  She watches one of the crab-like creatures stop at the wall, its tiny claws scraping at a rough stone. After a moment, the stone shifts, and something inside catches the light, a small gem, dull at first and then flashing with a quiet glimmer. The creature lifts it carefully, turning it in its claws, and its humming changes, rising into a quicker, brighter rhythm. The others nearby pause for a moment as if acknowledging the find, then continue their work, but the one with the gem scuttles away from the wall and joins a path leading deeper into the maze, carrying the prize with small, deliberate steps.

  Amelie follows the pitter-patter of the crab-creature's legs as it scurries down a path. It carries the gem, high above its head, a high-pitched hum following behind as a small, well-lit hut comes into view. Made entirely from stone, a bit smaller than a normal hut, painted in a soft tannish hue. A brown, tattered curtain is blocking the light from the inside.

  Amelie steps closer, hesitating for just a moment before pushing aside the tattered curtain. Inside, the air feels warmer and carries a faint, earthy scent. The hut is small but carefully arranged, every surface holding tiny carvings, stacked stones, and little glowing objects that seem to pulse softly. At the far end, raised on a stone platform like a throne, sits a creature unlike anything she has ever seen—a goat-like being with six slender arms, each tipped with delicate claws, folded calmly in its lap or resting on the throne’s arms.

  Its eyes glow faintly, and the crab-like creatures move about the hut with precise, reverent motions, placing stones and offerings at the base of the throne. A low, vibrating hum fills the space, the same rhythm she heard from the creatures outside, as if the entire hut itself is alive with quiet worship.

  Amelie steps closer, her eyes wide as the Goat God stands on its hooves.

  “Tharim… the maze… wind and thorn… carry stones… it tests… yes… tests the mind… the heart… the path… child… must see… must walk… must leave… understand… before… step… forward…” Its arms trace arcs in the air, pointing toward corridors she has not yet explored. “Cradle… crumble… rebuild… the path chooses… the path judges… those who wander… yes… learn… learn… then… go…” The humming of the crab-like creatures rises with it, vibrating through the hut as if the very stones themselves answer the proclamation.

  Amelie swallows, feeling both awe and a small tightening of fear.

  "How can I win?" Amelie falls to her knees, tilting her head downwards in respect.

  “Hrrm… child… seeker… path is trial… path is truth… path tests… heart… mind… body… patience… yes… all must bend… all must learn… all must see…” The maze God pauses, one clawed hand tracing a slow circle in the air, “And yet… step… always… turn… right… step… follow… turn… right… yes… eventually… path… ends.” The hum of the crab-like creatures swells in agreement, and the simplicity of the answer sits beneath the weight of its godlike tone, almost laughably ordinary despite the ceremony surrounding it.

  Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.

  Stomps start to be heard, and the entire hut starts to shake with each and every vibration, as if every step is a separate earthquake.

  Stone rattles. Pebbles clatter. Tiny stacks tip over.

  The soft hum dies. Broken. Jagged. Hollow.

  Something hits the walls outside. Something heavy. Something wrong.

  The crab-like creatures freeze, claws gripping stones, eyes wide and dull. The noise shakes the floor, the walls, her chest.

  The goat creature's brows furrow as it crosses its many arms and sits.

  "Chaos… temple… purity… ravage," its voice gets more visceral as things fall from the walls, clashing and breaking apart against the floor. "Punish… go… punish… rip… tear…" it beckons.

  Amelie pulls the curtain aside.

  She wishes she hadn’t.

  Outside is wrong.

  The cryptwalker moves.

  Too many limbs. Too much force.

  Crab creatures scatter. Some try to run. Some freeze.

  Begs for help and mercy in the form of squeaks.

  One looks up at it, claws pleading.

  It does not matter.

  They fall.

  Shells crack. Small claws twitch and stop.

  The maze hum is gone. Replaced by wet, breaking sounds.

  Amelie cannot name it.

  Her stomach turns. Her hands shake.

  She presses them to her eyes.

  Not to see.

  It does not help.

  She still hears it.

  Still knows something ended.

  The goat creature mutters behind her, furious and broken.

  “Chaos… punish… restore…”

  Words that mean nothing.

  The hut feels smaller.

  Colder.

  She wants it to stop.

  It does not.

  She needs it to stop.

  She stumbles back.

  Curtain slaps closed.

  Pebbles rattle against the floor.

  Her back hits the wall.

  She curls into herself.

  Hands over her ears.

  The cracking. The smashing. The screams of claws.

  It fills her head.

  Everywhere.

  She cannot think.

  Cannot breathe.

  Cannot name it.

  The maze outside.

  The cryptwalker.

  The crab creatures.

  All breaking.

  She rocks slightly.

  Back against the wall.

  Eyes squeezed shut.

  Humming. Shards of hum.

  The god muttering behind her.

  “Punish… chaos… restore…”

  It echoes.

  It rattles.

  It does not stop.

  Her mind frays.

  Fingers press harder to her temples.

  The walls shake.

  The floor vibrates.

  She cannot escape.

  She is nothing.

  Nothing but noise.

  Nothing but breaking.

  And it never ends.

  Step.

  Outside.

  Heavy.

  The goat god leaves the hut.

  The ground answers.

  Breaking.

  Splintering sounds.

  Not words.

  Not cries.

  Just noise.

  Something large stops moving.

  The hum outside twists.

  Cuts off.

  Amelie presses her hands harder to her ears.

  It does not help.

  The sound lives inside her head.

  Wet.

  Wrong.

  Like something being taken apart and never put back.

  She imagines it.

  She wishes she hadn’t.

  No details.

  Only the idea.

  Something powerful.

  Something that spoke.

  Gone.

  The crab creatures outside fall silent.

  The maze itself feels emptier.

  Hollow.

  Amelie shakes.

  Not crying.

  Not thinking.

  Just shaking.

  And then…

  Silence.

  Suddenly.

  No breaking.

  No wet noise.

  Just nothing.

  Amelie lowers her hands.

  They shake.

  Tears come.

  Quiet at first.

  Then harder.

  Shoulders shaking.

  Breath-catching.

  She presses her face to her knees.

  Hiding.

  Not from anything.

  It is gone.

  She saw it.

  She cannot explain it.

  Words do not fit.

  Crab creatures.

  God.

  Breaking.

  Gone.

  She sobs.

  Small sounds.

  Broken sounds.

  The hut listens.

  It does not answer.

  She tries to think.

  It slips away.

  Like water.

  Like something that never belonged.

  All that remains is the quiet.

  And the feeling that nothing will be the same.

  She takes a shaky breath. It catches, but she forces it out. Again. Slower. Her hands tremble as she pushes herself up, knees weak, body feeling too small. She steps toward the curtain, pauses, then pulls it aside.

  Outside is quiet. Not peaceful. Just empty. The crab creatures that once hummed and carried stones are gone or still. Small shapes lie broken along the path, shells cracked, tiny claws still. The stones they once carried are scattered, some half-smoothed into squares, unfinished. The maze itself looks unchanged and yet wrong, as if something important was removed and the walls simply forgot to notice.

  Amelie swallows. Her chest hurts in a dull way, not sharp, just heavy. She looks at the devastation and tries to understand it. Her mind reaches for explanations and finds nothing. No lesson. No reason. Just the echo of what happened and the knowledge that it cannot be undone. She stands there a moment, trembling, then lowers her head. Tears come again, quiet and hot, and she lets them fall while she tries to breathe.

  She falls to her knees… her eyes drawing close… as she hears a rumbling noise… The ground all around her starts to shake, pieces of dirt and earth falling down into a black pool beneath itself. The earth gives way. More pieces fall. Stones. Pebbles. The space beneath her opens like a mouth. She tries to push up, hands scrabbling, but there is nothing to hold. It collapses. Down. Down. She drops. No long fall. Just the sudden absence of ground. The dark swallows her.

  And then it stops.

  No maze.

  No goat god.

  No broken hut.

  She gasps, lungs filling with air that feels too normal. Her back hits something solid.

  Wood. The creaky floor of the library, welcoming her back the only way it knows how.

  The library sound comes back. Not loud. Just there. Paper rustling where it should not. A faint scrape, like something turning pages that are not there. Her head aches in the same dull way it always does when the library reaches for her, pulling thoughts apart. The air feels thicker, older. She blinks, trying to clear it, and looks down. The book lies open on the floor. Pages. Blank. Completely blank. No words. No pictures. Nothing at all. Just pale paper staring back at her. The tearing sound in her head stops. Silence follows. Real silence. It feels wrong. Like something should still be speaking.

  She looks down at her arm, and it feels wrong, somewhere between pain and nothing, responding when she moves but as if from far away. The edges blur and fade, flickering in and out until only a pitch-black shape remains, a void where something solid should be, trembling rapidly as if the world cannot decide whether to keep it. It snaps back and forth, half there and half not, a delayed and jittering movement she cannot control, like something inside it is trying to exist. She turns it over, searching for meaning, but the sensation remains—wrong and unexplained, a reminder that something about her has changed in a way she cannot understand.

  "Princess?" Abrams' voice speaks from the shadows, Amelie's heart jumping with excitement for the first time in who knows how long.

  "Abram!" Amelie rushes over, picking him up and holding him closely, starting to sob once more.

  "Your arm… does it hurt?" he meows, trying to wriggle free from her grasp.

  She doesn't answer.

  "The book… did you open it?" he notices the blank book.

  She shakes her head no.

  "I see… when I failed in that cursed book, all the pages turned blank too." he gives up and allows her to hold him. "I'm so sorry for whatever happened in there…"

  A few moments pass silently until Abram speaks up.

  He straightens, small but suddenly carrying himself like something important. “Hmmm… enough moping,” he says, voice sharper now, almost proud. “Bad things happen. Books go blank. Arms act strangely. Life continues. You will collect yourself, yes? Clean up. Presentable is better. We have work.” He pats her hand with a tiny claw, then hops down, glancing toward the hallway as if already planning the next step.

  Amelie sits back up, wiping her cheeks with her sleeves with a nod.

  I don’t understand… but I will keep going.