Chapter 1883

A soft sound came from the book.

Jude turned.

Its cover had opened.

The pages were blank again.

Then a line of writing appeared.

THE FIRST MEMORY WAS NOT A MEMORY.

A second line followed.

IT WAS A WITNESS.

Jude leaned closer.

The next sentence appeared.

THE TREE DID NOT REMEMBER THE BEGINNING.

THE TREE WAS THE BEGINNING.

The older Jude stared at the page.

"No."

The woman moved towards it.

"Don’t read that."

Jude turned towards her.

"Why?"

She looked at him.

"Because if the tree is the beginning, then everything the tree remembers belongs to it."

Jude frowned.

"And?"

The woman looked towards the two children.

"And everything it remembers can be changed."

A terrible creaking sound came from beneath the floor.

The room began to stretch.

The walls moved farther apart.

The table became longer.

The two chairs multiplied.

The little bed disappeared.

The window expanded until it filled the entire wall.

Beyond it, the tree was growing.

Its branches spread across the darkness.

Its roots stretched in every direction.

And beneath the roots, Jude saw thousands of little rooms.

Each one contained a child.

Some were sleeping.

Some were standing.

Some were sitting beside windows.

Some were holding wooden birds.

Some were holding keys.

Some were holding nothing at all.

Jude stared.

"Who are they?"

The smallest Sol looked at the rooms.

"Children who were never allowed to leave."

The older Jude approached the window.

"How many?"

The child answered:

"Enough."

Jude turned towards the woman.

"You said there were only five."

"I said nothing of the sort."

"Then how many children are there?"

The woman looked towards the tree.

"Too many."

A small figure appeared in one of the distant rooms.

It was a child with dark hair.

He looked towards Jude.

Then another appeared.

And another.

Then dozens.

Every one of them had the same face.

The same pale appearance.

The same dark hair.

The same small crescent pendant.

Jude stepped backwards.

The four Sols appeared at the window.

They were no longer standing behind him.

They were standing in the distant rooms.

One by one, they raised their hands.

The smallest Sol beside Jude stared.

"That’s not right."

"What?"

"There are more of us."

The child from the doorway looked towards the tree.

"No."

He slowly shook his head.

"They aren’t us."

Jude looked at him.

"Who are they?"

The child swallowed.

"They are the ones who were made before we were."

A distant door opened.

A child stepped out.

He looked exactly like Sol.

But he wore no pendant.

He held no bird.

He had no expression.

He walked towards the window.

Then he raised his hand.

The others followed.

One after another, doors opened across the roots.

Hundreds of children emerged.

The woman backed away.

"Close the room."

The older Jude looked at her.

"You knew."

She said nothing.

"You knew there were others."

"I knew there were rooms."

"You knew they were occupied."

"I knew something remained."

The older Jude shook his head.

"You told us the four children were different answers."

"They were."

"You told us the fifth was the one never born."

"He was."

"You told us the first child was lost."

"He was."

The older man stepped closer.

"What did you not tell us?"

The woman looked at him.

Then she said:

"I did not tell you that the first child was not the first."

The room shook.

The children beyond the window began speaking.

Their voices overlapped.

"Keeper."

"Father."

"Mother."

"Remember."

"Open."

"Return."

Jude covered his ears.

The smallest Sol clutched his arm.

The other child stood beside the table.

The woman raised her hands.

"Enough!"

The children stopped.

Every face turned towards her.

Then, in perfect unison, they spoke.

"You promised."

The woman froze.

The oldest of the children stepped forward.

He had no pendant.

No wooden bird.

His eyes were dark and perfectly still.

He looked at the woman.

"You promised nobody would be kept."

The woman lowered her hands.

The child continued.

"You promised nobody would be lost."

He pointed towards the little room.

"You promised nobody would be forgotten."

Then he looked at Jude.

"And you promised you would come back."

The wooden book slammed shut.

The woman whispered:

"Not him."

The child smiled.

"Which one?"

The room went dark.

A single light appeared above the table.

It illuminated a small wooden object.

A key.

But it was not the silver key or the dark key.

It was made of ordinary wood.

It had no markings.

No symbol.

No unusual shape.

Jude approached it.

The older Jude grabbed his wrist.

"Don’t touch it."

"Why?"

"Because that key belongs to the first door."

Jude looked at the key.

"What does it open?"

The older man stared towards the window.

"Nothing."

Jude frowned.

"What?"

"The first door does not open anything."

The woman looked towards him.

"Don’t tell him."

The older Jude continued.

"The first door was made to close."

Jude slowly withdrew his hand.

"Then why is there a key?"

The older man answered:

"Because someone wanted to lock the room from the outside."

A faint knocking came from the window.

The children were still there.

But the oldest child had moved closer.

He placed his palm against the glass.

Then he pointed towards the key.

The smallest Sol whispered:

"That’s the one."

Jude looked at him.

"The key?"

The boy nodded.

"It was used when they buried me."

The child from the doorway shook his head.

"No. It was used when they buried me."

The two stared at one another.

The woman looked terrified.

The older Jude closed his eyes.

Then Jude understood.

The key had not been used to lock the children inside.

It had been used to lock one of them out.

He reached for it.

The older Jude tried to stop him.

But the woman spoke first.

"Jude, wait."

He looked at her.

For the first time, she was not giving him an order.

She was pleading.

"Please."

Jude held the key.