Chapter 3: You Left Her First I held the photo so tight the edges dug into my palm. The boy in it grinned like he had no idea what was coming. The woman beside him smiled like she believed in forever. I didn’t remember either of them. Not really. But my body did. My lungs did. My throat tightened every time I looked at her face. My chest ached when I stared at the boy’s too-big teeth. That was me. That was her. And I didn’t know why I forgot. The air kept thinning. Each breath took more work. I sucked in, held it, let it go slow. The counter dropped to 260. Then 259. I didn’t move. I just sat there with the photo in my lap and the key still clenched in my fist. The room didn’t feel like a room anymore. It felt like a throat closing. Like the walls were breathing in while I tried to breathe out. I looked at her face again. The woman. My sister. The one who knew I’d lie. The one who left me here. Or maybe the one I left. I didn’t know. I didn’t remember leaving anyone. I didn’t remember being left. All I had was this photo, this key, this counter ticking down, and this voice that asked questions like it already knew the answers. I stood up. My legs felt weak. I didn’t care. I walked to the wall where the first note had been. I pressed my palm against it. Cold. Solid. No give. I turned around. Looked at the chair. The table. The ceiling. Nothing moved. Nothing changed. Just the air getting thinner. Just the number dropping. 258. 257. I sat back down. Hard. The chair didn’t creak. It didn’t do anything. It just held me. I stared at the photo again. The boy. The woman. The sun behind them. The way she leaned into him. Like she was proud. Like she belonged there. Like she had always been there. I whispered, “Why did you leave me?” The room shuddered. Not a lot. Not like an earthquake. Just a single, sharp tremor. Like something deep inside the walls had shifted. I gripped the arms of the chair. My breath caught. The counter froze at 256. Then, under the chair, something slid open. I didn’t see it happen. I heard it. A soft scrape. A click. I leaned forward. Looked down. A panel in the floor beneath the chair had moved aside. Just enough to reveal a small space. Inside, something glinted. I reached down. My fingers brushed metal. Cold. Rough. I pulled it out. A locket. Small. Rust eating at the edges. The chain was broken. I turned it over. No clasp. No hinge. Just a sealed oval, pitted with age. I ran my thumb over the surface. Nothing carved. No initials. No design. Just rust and time. I pried at the edge. My nail caught. I dug in. The metal gave. Just a little. Enough to crack it open. Inside, folded tight, was a slip of paper. I pulled it out. Unfolded it. The paper was brittle. Yellowed. The ink faded but still clear. It said: “You left her first.” I read it three times. Each time slower. Each time heavier. My throat closed. Not from the air. From the words. I looked at the photo again. The boy. The woman. Her hand on his shoulder. Her smile. His grin. I looked at the locket. The rust. The broken chain. I looked at the note in my hand. “You left her first.” The counter dropped to 255. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I just sat there, holding the note, staring at the photo, feeling the locket dig into my palm. The air kept thinning. My chest burned. I forced a breath. Then another. The counter fell to 254. 253. I stood up again. This time slower. My legs didn’t shake. My hands didn’t tremble. I walked to the table. Put the note down beside the first one. “She knew you’d lie.” Now this. “You left her first.” I put the locket beside them. I put the photo on top. I stepped back. The room didn’t react. No lights dimmed. No walls shifted. No voice spoke. Just the counter. 252. 251. 250. I sat back down. I didn’t look at the photos. I didn’t look at the notes. I looked at the floor. At the panel that had opened. At the space where the locket had been. I thought about the boy in the photo. About the woman. About the nickname. About the lie. About the leaving. I didn’t remember leaving anyone. But the room remembered. The counter hit 249. I closed my eyes. Tried to think. Tried to remember. Nothing came. Just the pressure in my chest. Just the dryness in my throat. Just the weight of the words in my hands. I opened my eyes. Looked at the intercom. Silent. No crackle. No voice. No question. Just the speaker. Just the wall. Just the room. I stood up again. Walked to the intercom. Put my hand on it. Cold. Smooth. No response. I pressed my ear to it. Nothing. Not even static. I stepped back. The counter hit 245. I walked to the wall where the first drawer had opened. Ran my fingers along the seam. Nothing. I walked to the ceiling. Looked up. Nothing there either. I walked to the chair. Sat down. Looked at the floor panel. Still open. Still empty. I picked up the locket again. Turned it over. Looked inside. Nothing else. Just the note. Just the rust. Just the silence. The counter hit 243. I put the locket down. Picked up the photo. Looked at the boy. Looked at the woman. Tried to see something I hadn’t seen before. A clue. A memory. A reason. Nothing. Just two people who knew each other. Who smiled together. Who stood in the sun. Who are now here. In this room. With me. While I die. The counter hit 242. I put the photo down. Picked up the first note. “She knew you’d lie.” I read it again. Then the second. “You left her first.” I put them side by side. Looked at them. Looked at the locket. Looked at the photo. The counter hit 241. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to feel. I just knew the air was thinner. I just knew the number was lower. I just knew I was running out of time. The counter hit 240. The intercom stayed silent. No question. No reward. No voice. Just me. Just the room. Just the photos. Just the notes. Just the locket. Just the air getting thinner. Just the weight. Just the guilt. I didn’t remember leaving her. But I must have. Because the room says so. And the room doesn’t lie.