Chapter 13: The Reflections Are Not Mine I lowered the scalpel. It felt heavier now than when I first picked it up. Not because of the metal. Not because of the blood still clinging to its edge. Because of what it meant. Because of what I remembered. Because of what I still didn’t understand. I turned to Lena. She hadn’t moved since she took my wrist. Her fingers had left no mark, but I still felt them there, like a brand. Like a signature. Like she had signed me into this moment and there was no backing out. I asked her, “What do I do now?” I didn’t expect an answer. Not from her. Not from anyone. I asked because the silence was too thick. Because the walls had stopped bleeding ink. Because the counter was still frozen at 206. Because I had no idea what came next. The room answered. Not with a voice. Not with a question. Not with a choice. The wall behind Lena split open. Not like a door. Not like a panel. Like skin peeling back. Clean. Quiet. No sound. No warning. Just a vertical seam appearing in the white, then widening, revealing darkness beyond. A sign hung above the opening. Ward 7 – Recovery. Lena didn’t look at it. She didn’t look at me. She just walked. Straight toward the opening. No hesitation. No glance over her shoulder. No pause to see if I would follow. She stepped through like she had done it a thousand times before. Like she belonged there. Like she was leading me somewhere I was supposed to go, whether I wanted to or not. I stood there for a second. Just one. The scalpel was still in my hand. The tattoo on my chest itched. The one on my wrist burned. The words “Do it again” pulsed under my skin like a second heartbeat. I followed her. I didn’t have a choice. Not really. There was no other door. No other path. No other option. The room behind me was empty now. The crib. The music box. The shoe. The syringe. All gone. Only the walls remained, covered in my sins, written in ink that wouldn’t fade. I stepped through the opening. The air changed. Not thinner. Not heavier. Just different. Colder. Sharper. Like walking into a place that had been waiting for me. Like walking into a memory that hadn’t finished yet. The corridor stretched ahead. Narrow. White. Lit by ceiling panels that flickered just enough to make the walls seem alive. The floor was smooth. No seams. No cracks. No footprints. Just white tile stretching into the distance. And the walls. The walls were mirrors. Not one mirror. Not a few. Every inch. Floor to ceiling. Side to side. Endless reflections staring back at me. But they weren’t me. Not exactly. The first reflection showed me as a child. Maybe eight. Wearing a white coat too big for him. Holding a plastic scalpel. Smiling. Proud. Like he had just performed his first surgery on a stuffed animal. I stopped walking. The reflection didn’t. It kept moving. Kept smiling. Kept holding that toy blade like it was real. I took a step forward. The next reflection showed me older. Maybe sixteen. Still in a white coat. Still holding a scalpel. But this one wasn’t smiling. His eyes were focused. His hands steady. He was standing over a cadaver in a high school anatomy lab. The blade in his hand was real this time. Sharp. Sterile. He didn’t flinch when he made the first cut. I kept walking. The next reflection was me at twenty-two. Medical school. White coat crisp. Scalpel in hand. Standing in an operating theater. Watching a real surgeon work. Waiting for his turn. His fingers twitched like he couldn’t wait to hold the blade himself. I walked faster. The next reflection was me at twenty-eight. First solo surgery. White coat gone. Scrubs on. Mask covering half his face. Eyes wide behind goggles. Hands trembling slightly as he made the incision. The patient was alive. Breathing. Trusting. He didn’t know the surgeon’s hands were shaking. I clenched my own hands. The scalpel in my grip felt slick. Not from blood. From sweat. From memory. I kept walking. Reflection after reflection. Each one me. Each one older. Each one holding a scalpel. Each one standing over a patient. Each one making a cut. Each one believing he was doing the right thing. Each one thinking he was in control. Until I saw her. The little girl. Six years old. Curled up on an operating table. Eyes closed. Hands folded over her chest. Hair tied back in a blue ribbon. The reflection wasn’t me this time. It was the surgeon standing over her. Me. But not me. Because in the reflection, I was smiling. Not a nervous smile. Not a focused smile. A calm smile. A confident smile. Like I knew exactly what I was doing. Like I had done this a hundred times before. Like I didn’t see the fear in her eyes before they closed. Like I didn’t hear her ask for Lena. Like I didn’t feel her hand go still under mine. The reflection made the cut. Clean. Precise. Right where the spine curved. The girl didn’t move. The reflection didn’t stop. I stopped walking. My breath caught. The counter on my chest didn’t move. Still frozen at 206. But my lungs felt tight. Like the air was being sucked out of the corridor. Like the mirrors were stealing it. I looked to my left. Another reflection. This one showed me at thirty-two. Standing in a hospital hallway. White coat stained with blood. Hands shaking. Eyes wild. Lena was beside me, gripping my arm. Telling me to breathe. Telling me it wasn’t my fault. Telling me to walk away. I didn’t listen. I walked into the next operating room. The next patient. The next cut. The next failure. I looked to my right. Another reflection. Me at thirty-five. Sitting in a courtroom. No white coat. No scalpel. Just a suit that didn’t fit. Lawyers talking. Nurses testifying. Lena on the stand. Saying nothing. Just staring at me. Like she was waiting for me to say something. To explain. To apologize. To take responsibility. I said nothing. I walked out. I looked ahead. Lena was still walking. She hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t turned. Hadn’t looked back. She was halfway down the corridor now. Her reflection showed up in every mirror. But hers didn’t change. Didn’t age. Didn’t shift. She was always the same. Always in scrubs. Always watching. Always waiting. I started walking again. Faster this time. Past reflections of surgeries gone wrong. Past patients I didn’t save. Past hands that shook when they shouldn’t have. Past eyes that closed when they should have stayed open. Past blood that spilled when it should have stayed inside. Every reflection held a scalpel. Every reflection made a cut. Every reflection failed. But none of them were me. Not really. Because I didn’t remember any of this. I didn’t remember the smiling child with the toy blade. I didn’t remember the teenager cutting into a cadaver like it was nothing. I didn’t remember the young surgeon trembling over his first live patient. I didn’t remember the man who walked out of a courtroom without saying a word. I didn’t remember any of them. But they remembered me. They stared at me as I passed. Not accusing. Not angry. Just watching. Like they were waiting for me to recognize them. Like they were waiting for me to admit that I was the one who put them there. I reached the middle of the corridor. Lena was still ahead. I stopped again. This time, I looked down. At my own reflection in the floor. It wasn’t me. It was a patient. Lying on an operating table. Eyes closed. Hands folded. Blue ribbon in her hair. The scalpel in my hand wasn’t mine anymore. It was the surgeon’s. And he was standing over me. I looked up. At the reflection in front of me. It wasn’t me either. It was another patient. Older this time. Maybe twelve. Boy. Dark hair. Pale skin. Tubes in his arms. Monitors beeping beside him. The surgeon—me—was leaning over him, scalpel in hand, making an incision just below the ribs. The boy didn’t move. The surgeon didn’t stop. I turned my head. To the left. Another patient. Girl. Nine years old. Freckles. Red hair. Crying before the anesthesia kicked in. The surgeon—me—ignored her. Made the cut anyway. To the right. Another patient. Boy. Seven. Smiling up at the surgeon like he trusted him. Like he thought this would fix everything. The surgeon—me—smiled back. Then made the cut. I turned around. Behind me. Another patient. Girl. Five. Holding a stuffed rabbit. Asking for her mom. The surgeon—me—told her it would be over soon. Then made the cut. I turned back. Lena was still walking. I started running. Past reflection after reflection. Each one a patient. Each one on a table. Each one still. Each one silent. Each one holding my face in their eyes as I passed. Each one waiting for me to