Chapter 2: The Face That Knew Me Before I Knew Myself I held the key against the wall where the note had been. Not because I thought it would do anything. Not because I had a plan. I just needed to do something. The counter kept dropping. 271. 270. 269. I pressed the key flat against the gray surface, right where the words “She knew you’d lie” had stared up at me from the table. I dragged it down slowly, like I was scratching a name into bark. The wall gave way. Not loudly. Not with a hiss or a groan. Just a soft click, then a rectangle of the wall slid sideways. No bigger than a book. Inside, taped flat against the back panel, was another photograph. I pulled it out. It showed a boy. Small. Maybe six or seven. Standing beside a woman. The same woman from the first photo. Her hair was longer here. Her smile wider. She had one hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy was grinning. Teeth too big for his face. Eyes squinting from the sun. He was holding something—a toy car, maybe. Or a piece of candy. I didn’t know. I didn’t remember. But I knew the boy. It was me. I stared at the photo until my vision blurred. The counter dropped to 265. I didn’t blink. I didn’t breathe. I just looked at the boy who was me, standing beside the woman who was not a stranger. The intercom crackled. I jumped. Not much. Just enough to feel my ribs tighten. The voice came through again. Same calm. Same measured tone. Like it had been waiting for me to find the photo. Like it had timed this. “Question Two: Who gave you the nickname ‘Mouse’?” I didn’t answer right away. I looked at the photo again. The boy. The woman. Her hand on his shoulder. The way she leaned into him, like she was proud. Like she belonged there. Like she had always been there. I said, “My sister.” The word came out before I could stop it. Just like “Mouse” had. It didn’t feel like a guess. It didn’t feel like a lie. It felt like something I had always known but never said out loud. Like a name I had buried under years of not needing it. The counter stopped at 260. Then it jumped to 265. Five breaths added. I exhaled. Then inhaled. The number dropped to 264. The lights dimmed. Not all at once. Not like a switch had been flipped. They just got darker. Like someone had turned down a dial. The room didn’t go black. It just got heavier. The air felt thinner. I took another breath. It didn’t feel like enough. I took another. Still not enough. Like I was breathing through a straw. I looked at the photo again. The boy. The woman. My sister. The woman in the first photo wasn’t just connected to me. She was family. I sat down hard on the chair. The key still in my hand. The photo in my lap. The air kept thinning. I could feel my chest working harder. Each breath took more effort. The counter kept falling. 263. 262. 261. I didn’t move. I didn’t think. I just stared at the photo of the boy who was me, standing beside the woman who was my sister, wondering why I didn’t remember her.