Angela's breath came unevenly.
"I don't know what to do…" Her voice cracked, her hands gripping her hair. "This is stupid. All of it is stupid. They all knew what they wanted. Every single one of them. And I'm just—"
Her words broke apart.
"I didn't even ask for this."
The space above her stretched endlessly, dark and vast, filled with layers of softly shifting leaves. They glowed faintly, unevenly, like something alive breathing in the dark.
But it didn't comfort her.
"I can't do this…"
Her fingers tightened.
"I—this isn't…"
Her breath hitched.
"I can't—"
The air changed.
Not visibly. Not audibly.
But something shifted.
A presence.
The Tree of Knowledge, silent as always, responded.
Not with words.
Not with sound.
But with form.
The space in front of her distorted.
At first, a faint outline, like light bending where it shouldn't.
Then it thickened.
Condensed.
A figure.
Her figure.
Angela froze.
It stood before her, identical in shape, identical in presence—but wrong.
Not transparent.
Not solid.
Something in between.
It moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Toward her.
Angela's throat tightened. "What… the hell is that…?"
The figure stopped.
It tilted its head.
Exactly the way she would.
"Mother?"
Angela's eyes widened. "What—?!"
It reached out.
Angela tried to move.
She couldn't.
The moment its hand touched her shoulder—
A sharp, cold ripple shot through her spine.
Not Ice.
Not air.
Wrong.
Her aura recognized it.
The exact same signature.
Her own, mirrored, displaced.
Her body locked.
Not in pain.
But in confusion.
Angela gasped, stumbling back. "What—what is this?!"
The figure watched.
Calm.
Unmoving.
"Do you really want to see them?"
Angela's breathing hitched. "See… who?"
"The ones you've been searching for."
Her eyes darted to the wall of holographic displays she'd activated earlier.
A supercomputer tower hummed softly, blue light glimmering along its edges. It's screen displayed Nina Piao, Max Piao, Abby Piao, and the other key names she had marked, each with sticky notes, handwritten connections, and small photographs.
Lines linked thoughts and events across centuries, forming a web of bloodline influence and choices.
Angela had spent hours, days, compiling it—adding notes, cross-referencing diaries, piecing together every crucial decision.
Her fingers hovered over the console, the keys illuminated beneath her palms. She had mapped the past, recorded patterns, and tried to predict the future.
"…Ask them?" Angela murmured, almost to herself. "…Ask them what?"
"What you should do."
Silence.
Pressure.
Doubt.
Her thoughts raced.
"…That's not possible," she muttered.
The figure tilted its head.
"I can make it possible."
Angela's eyes darted back to the screen.
Every name, every connection, every note she had painstakingly placed lined up to form a map of decisions.
"…All of them?" she whispered.
"If you wish."
Her hesitation cracked.
"I want to see them. All of them. I want to know what they would do… if they were me."
The figure was still.
"That can be done."
It stepped closer.
"But there is something I require."