The sweeper presses both palms flat against the sealed entrance and works along the circumference — methodically, the way one sweeps, corner to corner. The mycelium gives slightly under pressure, warm and faintly damp, like touching the inside of a cheek. But it springs back whole each time. There is no seam. Whatever gap existed has been fully consumed; the filaments have knit so thoroughly that the protagonist cannot find the point where they began. A full circuit of the chamber and there is no exit here. What the sweeper finds instead: on the far side, a low archway where the mycelium grows thin enough to be nearly translucent, the green glow diffuse behind it like light through a hand held over a candle. And near the floor, a cluster of rust-coloured nodes — the same pattern as the cap's spots outside — beading a slow amber fluid into the dark earth. The hum shifts pitch when the protagonist's fingers pass close.