They hadn’t taken more than thirty steps back toward the exit when a noise hit them.
Not an echo. Not a whisper.
A voice. Loud. Cheerful. Echoing off the stone like it was proud of itself.

“—HELLO? ANYONE DEAD IN THERE YET?”

Oswald flinched. Marek nearly dropped the lantern.

From the next corridor came the sound of boots, loose gravel, and someone humming a marching tune completely out of rhythm. Then, around the corner, Bram appeared — all ruffled hair, open jacket, and the kind of smile usually seen in taverns after the fifth round.

“Oswald!” Bram beamed, as if the dimly lit quarry was the happiest place on the continent. “Didn’t expect you this soon. Also, didn’t expect you alive.”

Marek blinked at him. “Friend of yours?”

Oswald looked pained. “That depends on the hour.”

“Fair,” Bram said, already walking closer. “You got it?” He pointed at the lantern Marek was holding.

“We did,” Oswald said. “You left it in a mine.”

“I didn’t leave it, it just followed me. I tried to leave it in the kitchen, but it kept making everyone cry.” Bram grinned. “Terrible guest.”

Marek tilted his head. “You’re Bram.”

“Guilty. And you must be the guy who looks like he remembers every mistake he's ever made.”

“That’s… oddly accurate.”

Bram gave Marek a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Nice! You got that slow-burning trauma look. Makes people trust you.”

Oswald cleared his throat. “Bram, this is Marek. Marek, Bram.”

The two men stared at each other for a second too long.

Then Marek offered: “You smell like something I forgot to throw away.”

Bram laughed like it was the highest praise. “Fantastic. We’re going to be friends.”

They hadn’t made it twenty meters before the air vibrated—softly, but wrong.
Like someone humming two songs at once.

Oswald froze. “Wait—”

BOOM.

A low rumble rolled through the mine like a dragon exhaling underground. Stone groaned. Dust fell. And behind them, the tunnel slid. Not collapsed—just rearranged itself with a grinding finality, like it was tired of being walked through.

“Well,” Bram said cheerfully, brushing debris from his shoulders, “looks like the mine’s in a redecorating mood.”

Marek coughed once, pipe clenched between his teeth. “That was the way out.”

“Was,” Bram agreed. “Now it’s an art piece.”

Oswald sighed. “We’ll have to use the lower path.”

“That one with the long stair?” Bram asked.

“Yes.”

Bram turned to Marek. “Hope your knees are in the mood for nostalgia.”

Marek muttered something about early retirement.

They walked.

But as they moved, Marek started noticing the walls again. The way the shadows doubled and bent, like the quarry was thinking about lying to them.

He passed the same busted wheelbarrow. Twice.

“Oswald,” he asked, “are we…?”

“Yes,” Oswald said, not looking up. “It’s looping. Echo confusion. Happens in deep mines with unresolved Path Ore.”

Marek groaned. “And you brought me here why?”

“To recover an unstable artifact and meet a man with boundary issues.”

“Hi,” Bram said, waving.

They kept going until finally, just ahead, the tunnel bent — not left or right, but somehow both — and opened into a chamber that felt new.

The air was heavier. Quieter. Not just silence, but a hush.

Then, at the very edge of the lantern light, something moved.

A tiny shape.

It padded forward with the calm purpose of something that didn’t care if it was seen.
It sniffed Marek’s boot. Then, with a flick of its tiny tail, turned and vanished again into a narrow crevice.

Marek didn’t say a word.

Oswald raised an eyebrow. “Another memory?”

“…No,” Marek said slowly. “Something… else.”