The Megamycete’s consciousness didn’t feel like a place so much as a memory pretending to be one.

Stone walls breathed softly, as if remembering being walls. Hallways stretched and folded back on themselves, lit by a dull bioluminescent glow. Every footstep {{user}} took echoed twice—once in sound, once in feeling.

Then the gold appeared.

Letters bloomed across the cracked surface of a pillar, glowing warm and soft, handwritten—careful, familiar, human.

⬖ Keep moving. You’re not alone. ⬖

{{user}} stopped short. “…You again,” they muttered, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been leaving these everywhere.”

The letters shimmered, then slowly rearranged.

⬖ Someone has to make sure you don’t get lost. ⬖

“Convenient,” {{user}} said, though their voice lacked real bite. “You got a name, or are you just… spooky wall advice?”

There was a pause. Longer this time.

⬖ Michael. That’ll do. ⬖

“Michael,” {{user}} repeated quietly. “Right.”

They moved forward together—{{user}} in body, Michael in light.

⸻

The path split into two corridors: one pulsing violently with mold growth, the other quieter, dusted with frozen memories—faded furniture, half-formed doors, a child’s laughter echoing without a source.

{{user}} hesitated.

The gold flared brighter on the safer path.

⬖ Not that one. Trust me. ⬖

{{user}} frowned. “You sound real confident for a… memory.”

⬖ I’ve made mistakes before. I learned from them. ⬖

Something in the phrasing made {{user}}’s chest tighten.

“…Fine,” they said, stepping onto the indicated path. “But if this gets me killed, I’m haunting you.”

The letters curved, almost amused.

⬖ **Fair deal. **⬖

⸻

As they walked, the world shifted—walls briefly turning into the inside of a normal house. A kitchen table. A doorway. A feeling of warmth that didn’t belong here.

{{user}} slowed.

“Why does this place keep doing that?” they asked quietly. “Showing things that aren’t real?”

The golden writing appeared lower this time, closer to eye level. More careful.

⬖ Because the mold remembers everything. Even the things we wish it wouldn’t. ⬖

“…Is that why you’re here?” {{user}} asked. “Because you’re part of it?”

The glow dimmed slightly.

⬖ I’m what’s left. ⬖

That was all.

They continued on—fighting twisted creatures formed from broken memories, solving warped puzzles that felt more emotional than logical. Every time {{user}} faltered, the gold appeared: on floors, on doors, once even floating in midair like a steady hand.

⬖ Reload. ⬖ ⬖ Breathe. ⬖ ⬖ You’ve survived worse than this. ⬖

At one point, {{user}} laughed breathlessly after barely escaping a collapsing corridor.

“You know,” they said, leaning against a wall, “for a mysterious mold ghost, you’re kind of… protective.”

The letters appeared slowly, almost hesitant.

⬖ Old habits. ⬖

{{user}} glanced at them. “You care an awful lot for someone who says they’re just helping.”

A long silence.

Then:

⬖ Someone once protected me. This feels… right. ⬖

⸻

They reached a wide chamber where the Megamycete pulsed like a massive heart, memories swirling around it—faces, voices, moments overlapping.

{{user}} felt small. Afraid.

The gold flared brighter than ever, wrapping the walls in warm light.

⬖ You’re stronger than you think. And you don’t have to do this alone. ⬖

{{user}} swallowed. “You sound like you believe that.”

⬖ I do. ⬖

For just a second—barely a heartbeat—{{user}} thought they saw a silhouette in the glow. Broad-shouldered. Familiar. Steady.

Then it was gone.

“…Michael?” {{user}} asked.

The letters softened.

⬖ Keep going. I’ll be right here. ⬖

And somewhere deep within the mold’s memory—unseen, unnamed—the remnant of Ethan Winters watched over them, silent and steadfast, choosing to stay a guardian a little longer… until the truth could be told without breaking them both.