Chapter 30: The Weight of Mirrors The elevator doors closed behind me and I stood in the dark. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe harder. I just held the scalpel like it was the only thing keeping me upright. The air didn’t change. The walls didn’t hum. Nothing rattled or shook. It was just me and the dark and the blade in my hand. Then Mira’s voice came. Not from speakers. Not from above or below. It came from inside my head, like she had always been there, waiting for the right moment to speak. “You cut the cord,” she said. “Now carry the weight.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t ask what she meant. I already knew. The weight wasn’t in my arms. It wasn’t on my shoulders. It was in my chest, behind my ribs, sitting where my heart used to beat without guilt. I had cut the wire. I had made the choice. I had let the silence die. Now there was no going back. No pretending. No forgetting. The elevator moved. I felt it rise. Fast. Smooth. No jerking. No slowing. Just up, up, up, like it was trying to reach something I couldn’t see yet. I didn’t brace myself. I didn’t look for buttons or emergency levers. I just stood there, scalpel in hand, waiting for it to stop. It did. The doors opened without a sound. I stepped out. White walls. White floor. White ceiling. A hallway stretched in front of me, clean and empty, lit by something I couldn’t find. No bulbs. No fixtures. Just light, even and cold, like it had no source and no end. Doors lined both sides. Numbered. One through twenty-nine. All closed. All identical. No handles. No keypads. Just smooth white panels with black numbers stamped in the center. At the end of the hall, Door 30 glowed. Not brightly. Not like a warning or a signal. Just a faint pulse, like it was breathing. Like it was alive. Like it was waiting for me. I walked toward it. My shoes made no sound. The floor didn’t echo. The air didn’t shift. I just moved forward, one step at a time, eyes locked on that door. I didn’t look left. I didn’t look right. I didn’t think about what was behind the other doors. I didn’t wonder why they were there. I just walked. The scalpel felt heavier with every step. Not because it weighed more. Because I knew what it meant now. It wasn’t a tool. It wasn’t a weapon. It was a key. A question. A sentence waiting to be carried out. I had used it to cut the wire. I had used it to open the path. Now it was asking me what I would do next. I reached Door 30. I stopped in front of it. The glow was soft. Barely there. But it was enough to make the number stand out. 30. Not 29. Not 31. Thirty. Like it was counting down with me. Like it knew exactly how many breaths I had left. I reached for the handle. There wasn’t one. Just a smooth surface. No seam. No button. No lock. Just white. I pressed my palm against it. Nothing happened. I pushed. Nothing gave. I ran my fingers along the edge. No gap. No hinge. It was like the door wasn’t meant to be opened. Or maybe it was waiting for something else. I stepped back. I looked at the scalpel. Maybe this was it. Maybe I had to cut again. Maybe the door would only open if I made another choice. Another sacrifice. Another cut. I raised the blade. I didn’t hesitate. I brought it down toward the door. Before the tip touched the surface, every door behind me opened at once. I didn’t turn around right away. I just froze. The scalpel hovered in the air. My arm didn’t drop. My breath didn’t catch. I just stood there, listening. No sound came from the doors. No footsteps. No voices. No wind. Just silence. Heavy. Thick. Like the hallway had swallowed everything but me. I turned. Slowly. One door at a time, twenty-nine doors stood open. Behind each one, a version of me stood there. Same clothes. Same face. Same hollow eyes. Same scalpel in hand. They didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They just stared at me. All of them. Twenty-nine versions of Elias V., surgeon, failure, murderer, brother, patient, ghost. Each one whispered one word. “Mira.” Not loud. Not angry. Not pleading. Just a whisper. Soft. Calm. Like they had been waiting for me to turn around. Like they had known I would. I didn’t move. I didn’t step forward. I didn’t step back. I didn’t raise the scalpel. I didn’t lower it. I just stood there, trapped between Door 30 and the twenty-nine versions of myself, each one whispering her name like it was the only thing they remembered. The hallway didn’t change. The light didn’t flicker. The doors didn’t close. I didn’t breathe. I just stood there, scalpel in hand, frozen.