The door closed behind her with a heavy, almost solemn sigh. The sound echoed for a long time, like an invisible bell struck in a forgotten sanctuary. A thick silence settled, and Oizys took a step into the darkness.

Her eyes took a moment to adjust, but soon, a pale bluish glow rose from the floor, like a veil of mist lit from beneath. The atmosphere was steeped in mystery and strangeness; even the air felt charged with an imperceptible vibration.

Then the scene slowly revealed itself.

The room was vast, circular, absurdly tall—like it had been built in the bowels of an abandoned theater. The floor was made of old wood, polished by time, creaking under her steps. Around her, old red curtains with frayed edges hung from the ceiling, forming arches like a circus tent. Silent, rusted spotlights drooped from the dome above, frozen in angles that cast no light.

At the center of the room: puppets.

Motionless. Aligned like soldiers from another age. Their bodies of wood and cloth, dressed in faded costumes of clowns, acrobats, and tightrope walkers, seemed to wait. Their hand-painted faces bore exaggerated emotions—grotesque laughter, unfathomable sorrow, twisted fear. Some seemed to cry painted tears; others wore masks split in two.

Then, without warning, they began to move.

They danced.

Their gestures were fluid and precise—a silent choreography, perfectly synchronized, as if guided by an inaudible melody. Oizys stepped back, both fascinated and uneasy. They spun, bowed, jumped and landed with mechanical grace. Their movements seemed human—too human—but no strings connected them to anything.

And yet, there were strings.

Suspended from the ceiling, they hung in the air, stopping just inches above the puppets. Invisible at first glance, they seemed made of an unreal material, somewhere between light and smoke.

Oizys reached out toward one. Her palm brushed it, and suddenly the string materialized under her fingers—dense and real. She tugged gently. Nothing. The puppet below continued to dance, unaffected.

A frown crossed her brow. She tried another, then another. Still no effect. The puppets kept dancing, independent of her.

Then an idea came to her.

She grabbed several strings at once, manually tied them to the wrists and shoulders of some puppets, forcing the connection, convinced that this contact would finally trigger their obedience. Then she tried to manipulate them. She raised her arms, made deliberate movements, mimicking an invisible puppeteer.

But the puppets did not react.

They kept dancing, as if she weren’t there. One even bumped into her, brushing her with a painted, mocking laugh.

Frustration rose inside her. She pulled harder, kept rearranging the ties, trying to guide the motion. With each attempt, her heartbeat quickened. She wanted to understand. She needed to understand. Why couldn’t she control them? Why did they defy her will?

Then one of the strings snapped.

It remained in her hand like a dead snake. Others fell around her, lifeless, cleanly severed. Their ends twitched in a final spasm before going still.

The puppets stopped.

And the ground began to tremble.

The setting wavered like a faulty illusion. The walls faded into swirling mist. The space seemed to unfold, to shift in nature.

She was no longer in the circus room.

She was standing in the middle of a storm.

The sky was black, torn by lightning, and gusts of wind pushed her in every direction. Rain fell in sheets—cold, piercing. Every step was a struggle. She moved forward—or tried to—her hands reaching toward a figure in the distance. Someone was shouting.

— Why can’t you do anything right? You did everything you were supposed to…

The voice pierced the silence like a sharp whisper—chilling, familiar. Oizys froze. It wasn’t fear that rooted her in place—it was something else. A vertigo. A deep, ancient discomfort. That twist in her stomach, the burn in her throat: a mix of shame and exhaustion.

That feeling of defeat.

Around her, the air vibrated. Voices rose in the space, as if the walls themselves remembered. The circus curtains quivered, and the shadows began to dance.

Then came the memories.

(The humanity she suppresses.)

A classroom, bathed in artificial light.

A classmate speaking sharply:

— You don’t understand other people’s pain, do you? You’ve never cried for anyone. You look at us like you’re above it all.

She stood there—stoic, frozen in a glacial silence. Around her, confused gazes. Oizys said nothing. She didn’t cry. She wasn’t allowed to. Crying meant weakness. She thought: If I stay calm, it will all pass. If I control everything, I’ll never fall.

But deep down, she didn’t understand her own feelings either.

That day, she swallowed a sob so hard it left a permanent mark: an invisible scar. A voice that always said: You’re not allowed to be weak. You’re not allowed to feel.

And that voice, today, had just spoken to her.

(What we can’t control.)

The memory changed.

A notebook on a desk. Neat lines. A meticulous schedule. Goals, dates, dreams—all lined up like soldiers on a page.

> "Study abroad."

“Graduate in three years.”

“Find a stable job.”

“Take care of Dad.”

Then: a phone call.

Then: war.

Then: nothing.

The streets of her city bombed. The banks closed. The currency collapsed. Her father’s coffin. All her plans swept away in a matter of weeks. Nothing remained. Even the pages of her notebook had been stained by damp.

She had told herself: I’ll find another way. I’ll adapt. I’ll stay in control.

But once again, she had seen it coming too late.

And in that memory, she saw herself—standing, straight, cold—as her world silently crumbled around her.

(The mask she can no longer wear.)

One last vision.

She’s in a waiting room. A friend crying beside her. Someone just delivered bad news. A death. A breakup. It doesn’t matter. The world collapsed around her—but Oizys stood tall.

No tremble. No word. Not even a breath.

— Are you okay? someone asked.

— Yeah, I’m fine, she replied with a smile.

Always. Always that marble facade. Always that calm voice. That mask.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t fall apart. She never let herself say “I’m hurting.”

Because secretly, she feared that if she allowed even one crack, everything inside her would shatter at once.

She ran—or at least she tried. Her legs buckled beneath her, numb, unfamiliar. Each step felt like it cost an eternity. She pulled at her arms, struggling against an invisible force, as if chains of glass held her back.

The strings.

Still them.

They hung, insidious, between her limbs and the space around her. She was no longer free. No longer an actor.

She had become the puppet.

A clumsy, disjointed marionette, desperately longing to cut her own strings.

She wanted to scream, to turn back time, to do it all over again. Replay that moment until she got it right.

She wanted to explain, to shout that she was more than her failures—that she tried, that she wasn’t what others saw.

But the more she resisted, the more the chaos grew around her, mirroring the storm inside her.

Her mind drowned in a tempest of noise, light, memories, and shame.

And then... it all faded.

The memories vanished like mist at dawn.

Oizys staggered. One knee hit the floor. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from clarity.

Something inside her had just broken.

The voice returned, softer this time, almost gentle:

> You can’t fix the past. You never could.

And in trying to be strong…

…you lost yourself.

Those words echoed within her like an ancient truth, ignored for far too long.

And Oizys understood.

The control she had so desperately sought… was nothing more than a disguised refuge. A gilded cage, built to survive, not to live. And this room — this circus of shadows and memory — had slowly forced her to face what she had fled: her limits, her wounds, her humanity.

Around her, the strings slowly melted, as if invisible rain were dissolving them. They slipped through her fingers like warm silk threads, then evaporated.

She closed her eyes. And let go.

The storm stopped. Instantly.

A deep silence fell, dense, almost sacred. When she opened her eyes again, she was back in the circus hall. The puppets were still, frozen as if mid-reverence, suspended in time.

One of them slowly bowed, its rigid arms extended toward her. In its wooden hand hung a silver key, tied to a scarlet red string ,like a beating heart.

Oizys reached out her hand. The moment her fingers brushed the metal, a shiver raced up her spine , sharp and cold , as if something had broken inside her. Or perhaps… something had finally been set free.

In the shadows, a new door appeared. Massive, silent, etched with an enigmatic inscription: S03 — E26