Chapter 11: The Scalpel Knows First I stood in front of the door. The handle was cold under my fingers. I whispered the question again, just to make sure I meant it. “Why did I let you die?” The lock groaned. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a slow, tired sound, like something that hadn’t moved in years finally giving in. The door swung open on its own. No push. No pull. Just space appearing where there hadn’t been any. I stepped through. The room on the other side was white. Too white. Walls, floor, ceiling — all the same. No windows. No machines. No tubes. Just a bed. Empty. And a chair. And her. Lena sat in the chair. Not moving. Not speaking. Just looking at me. Her hair was dark. Her eyes were red. Not from crying now. From before. From screaming. From breaking. I knew that look. I’d seen it in the flashes. I’d felt it in my chest when the syringe hit my neck. I didn’t need to remember her face to know it was hers. I just knew. The counter stopped. 206. Frozen. Not ticking. Not dropping. Just sitting there, inside me, like it was waiting for something to happen before it decided whether to keep going or not. I didn’t move toward her. I didn’t speak. I just stood there, one foot still on the dirt from the hole I’d climbed out of, the other on the clean white floor of this room that shouldn’t exist. She didn’t blink. She didn’t shift. She didn’t look away. Her voice came quiet. Not angry. Not sad. Not broken. Just flat. Like she was reading something off a list. “You don’t get to ask that until you remember how.” I opened my mouth. I didn’t know what I was going to say. Maybe I was going to ask what she meant. Maybe I was going to say I didn’t remember. Maybe I was going to say I was sorry. Maybe I was going to say nothing at all. I didn’t get the chance. She stood up. Slow. Deliberate. Like every movement had been practiced. Like she’d done this before. Like she’d waited for this moment for a long time. She walked toward me. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. Like she wasn’t afraid of me. Like she wasn’t surprised to see me. Like she’d known I’d come. She stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could see the dry streaks on her cheeks. Close enough that I could see the cracks in her lips. Close enough that I could smell nothing at all. No perfume. No sweat. No hospital soap. Nothing. She reached into her pocket. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t step back. I just watched. Her hand came out holding a scalpel. Small. Silver. Sharp. The kind they use in surgery. The kind that doesn’t make noise when it cuts. The kind that doesn’t warn you before it opens you up. She held it out to me. Not offering. Not asking. Just presenting. Like it was something I was supposed to take. Like it was something I was supposed to know what to do with. I looked at it. I didn’t reach for it. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I just looked. She didn’t pull it back. She didn’t say anything else. She just stood there, arm extended, scalpel in hand, waiting. I looked at her face again. Her eyes didn’t waver. Her mouth didn’t twitch. Her hand didn’t shake. She wasn’t testing me. She wasn’t punishing me. She wasn’t begging me. She was just showing me what came next. I looked down at the scalpel. The light in the room didn’t reflect off it. It didn’t gleam. It didn’t shine. It just sat there, dull and real, like it had been waiting for me to pick it up. I looked at my chest. Not because she told me to. Not because I was scared. Not because I was thinking about cutting myself. I just looked. Like I was checking to see if there was already a mark there. Like I was checking to see if I’d done this before. There wasn’t. Just my shirt. Just my skin underneath. Just my breath, still stuck at 206. I looked back at her. She didn’t nod. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She just pointed. Not with her whole hand. Not with a finger. Just with her chin. A small tilt. A small motion. Toward my chest. Like she was reminding me. Like she was telling me where to start. Like she was saying, This is where it begins. Again. I didn’t take the scalpel. I didn’t refuse it. I didn’t speak. I just stood there. Her arm didn’t drop. Her eyes didn’t leave mine. The room didn’t change. The counter didn’t move. The bed stayed empty. The floor stayed clean. The air stayed still. I didn’t know what would happen if I took it. I didn’t know what would happen if I didn’t. I didn’t know if this was real. I didn’t know if she was real. I didn’t know if any of this was a memory or a trick or a test or a punishment. I didn’t know. But I knew one thing. She wasn’t going to say anything else. She wasn’t going to move. She wasn’t going to leave. She was going to stand there, scalpel in hand, pointing at my chest, until I did something. So I moved. Not toward her. Not away. Just my hand. Slow. Careful. Not shaking. Not rushing. Just reaching. My fingers closed around the handle. Cold. Smooth. Light. Not heavy. Not threatening. Just a tool. Like the key. Like the locket. Like the knife. Like the syringe. Like everything else in this place. Made to be used. Made to be held. Made to be pointed at something that needed to be opened. I pulled it from her hand. She didn’t resist. She didn’t let go too fast. She just released it. Like she’d been waiting for me to take it. Like she’d known I would. I held it in front of me. Not pointing at anything. Not threatening. Not ready. Just holding. She stepped back. One step. Then another. Not far. Just enough to give me space. She sat back down in the chair. Not slowly. Not heavily. Just normally. Like she was settling in to watch. Like she was preparing to wait. Like she’d done this before. I looked at the scalpel again. I turned it in my hand. I felt the weight. I felt the edge. I didn’t press it against my skin. I didn’t test how sharp it was. I just held it. I looked at her. She didn’t look away. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. I looked at the bed. Empty. Clean. White. I looked at the floor. No stains. No footprints. No blood. I looked at the walls. No cracks. No words. No letters. No clues. No questions. No answers. Just white. I looked at my chest again. I lifted the scalpel. Not fast. Not slow. Just lifting. The tip hovered over my shirt. Not touching. Not pressing. Just waiting. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I didn’t know if I was supposed to cut. I didn’t know if I was supposed to wait. I didn’t know if I was supposed to speak. I didn’t know if I was supposed to remember. I didn’t know. But I knew she was watching. I knew she wasn’t going to help. I knew she wasn’t going to stop me. I knew she wasn’t going to save me. I knew she was just going to sit there. And wait. And watch. And see what I did next. I pressed the tip against my shirt. Not hard. Not soft. Just enough to feel the fabric give. I didn’t push through. I didn’t pull back. I just held it there. The counter didn’t move. 206. Lena didn’t move. The room didn’t change. The scalpel didn’t warm up. My hand didn’t shake. I didn’t breathe harder. I didn’t think clearer. I didn’t remember anything new. I just stood there. With the scalpel against my chest. With her watching. With the door behind me open. With the dirt under my shoe. With the name in my mouth. With the scream in my ears. With the knowing in my bones. With the number in my chest. With the question still hanging. Why did I let you die? I didn’t answer it. I didn’t try to. I just pressed a little harder. The fabric gave. The tip touched skin. Cold. Sharp. Real. I didn’t cut. I didn’t stop. I just held it there. Waiting. For something to happen. For something to change. For something to break. For something to begin. Lena didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She didn’t blink. She just watched. And waited. And pointed. With her chin. At my chest. Where the scalpel sat. Not cutting. Not yet. Just resting. Like it belonged there. Like it had always been there. Like it was part of me. Like it was the only thing that could open what needed to be opened. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think. I just stood there. With the scalpel against my skin. With her watching. With the counter frozen. With the door open behind me. With the dirt still under my shoe. With the name on my lips. Lena. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She just sat there. And pointed. At my chest. With her chin. Waiting. For me to remember. How.