She walks the endless halls, newly alone, but unafraid. Why should she fear? Her path trails behind her, bright as a beacon, unmistakable, unbreakable. She is warm, and fed, and it is quiet here.
Something sweet and familiar on the air, so she pushes forward, the clew tangled against one of her legs an alien weight, but not unpleasant. She rubs her teeth together, thinks about what she will tell her sister-sisters, if and when she returns. Something lived here once, vast as a city block; she can taste its labor in the walls and floor, bones of a strange and foreign body now absent, and it comforts her.
No corners here, no crosspaths, no doorways or chambers, no factories nor birthing rooms, just curve after gentle curve. A light grows ahead of her and she makes for it, turning through ever wider arcs until she breathes in deep the syrup-rich smell of the open air.