Ima -

Not a resemblance. Not a genetic echo. The same cheekbones, the same scar above her left eyebrow (earned at age seven, falling off a bicycle she'd never owned in this life), the same way of tilting her head as if listening to music no one else could hear.

They had chosen to do it anyway. In 1912. The ritual in the twisting tower had not been an erasure—it had been a delay . They had hidden the truth until humanity was ready to participate. Because the remembering required all conscious beings, not just the Ima. And humans, with their beautiful broken hearts, were the last piece. Elara closed the glowing book. Her hands were shaking. The librarian was staring at her now—the forgetting was almost gone. Not a resemblance

She closed her eyes.

Elara touched her cheek. She was.

She touched the first page, and the symbols flooded out of her fingertips like water from a broken dam. The page filled with Ima script—the twisting, alive characters that she now realized she had been writing in her dreams for years. She had thought they were nonsense. They were not. They had chosen to do it anyway

"You're crying," the librarian said.

And she remembered the Burning. The Ima had not been destroyed by war or famine or natural disaster. They had been voluntarily forgotten . In 1912—the photograph's date was accurate—the last twelve Ima had gathered in the twisting tower and performed a ritual that erased their civilization from every record, every memory, every dimension that intersected with consensus reality. They had hidden the truth until humanity was