It’s hard to remember how long you’ve been descending. Floor after floor, always chasing those glimmering crystals — the last scraps of hope in this place. You tell yourself it's for salvation. You have to believe that.

This time, the elevator shutters as you arrive. those cursed things pretending to be crystals. You nearly didn’t make it. In the rush, your torch flickered out. Figures. No time to find another. You’ll have to trust the glow of the real crystals… if any are even real anymore.

your in: “Childhood Memories”

The humming starts before the elevator fully stops. A lullaby, faint and cracked, like it’s being sung through an old music box. Then her voice — not the one singing — but the one that speaks every time you reach a new floor. You hear the voice... “She doesn’t know where she is. Don’t scare her. Don’t let her cry. If she cries… it hears. If she cries… it comes.”

That’s all she says. No name. No explanation. Just that whisper, leaving more questions behind. You press forward, hallway barely lit, footsteps muffled by the carpeted floor. Then, something catches your eye in the gloom.

A crib — old, wooden, with peeling paint and threads of fabric tied to the bars like ribbons. As you step closer, a flash of yellow light stares back — eyes. Wide and glowing from the shadows inside. You freeze.

''Mama!''

She climbs out slowly, like a puppet coming to life. A stitched-up doll with copper-red yarn hair, tied into twin pigtails, and a red lace frill perched like a crown. Her polka-dot dress sways with every movement

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t blink. Just… jumps into your arms like she’s known you forever.

You hold her close, unsure what to do

If she cries, something will answer. You need to keep moving.