Chapter 4: I Left Her First I said it out loud. Not to myself. Not in my head. Not whispered like before. I opened my mouth and let the words leave me like a confession dragged out by force. “I left her first.” The air didn’t change. The walls didn’t shake. The counter kept falling. 239. 238. Nothing happened. I waited. I held the locket in one hand, the note in the other. The photo sat on the table between them like a witness. I stared at the intercom. Still silent. Still dark. Still nothing. Maybe I imagined the connection. Maybe the room didn’t care what I said. Maybe it only cared about the questions it asked. Maybe I was just talking to myself in a box that wanted me dead. I sat down. The chair didn’t creak. It never did. I put the locket on my knee. The note on the armrest. I looked at the photo again. The boy. The woman. The sun. The way she leaned into him like he was something worth holding onto. I didn’t remember leaving her. But the note said I did. The room said I did. And now I said it too. The counter hit 235. I leaned back. Closed my eyes. Tried to think. Tried to remember. Tried to feel something real. Nothing came. Just the dryness in my throat. Just the tightness in my chest. Just the slow, heavy drop of the numbers. Then the intercom crackled. Not loud. Not sudden. Just a low, static hum that built into a voice. Cold. Calm. Like it had been waiting. “Why did you leave her?” I opened my eyes. The speaker stared back at me. Black. Silent. Except for the voice still hanging in the air. I didn’t answer right away. I looked at the photo. At the woman. At her smile. At the way her hand rested on the boy’s shoulder like she would never let go. I left her. Why? I didn’t know. But I had to say something. The counter dropped to 234. I swallowed. My throat clicked. I opened my mouth. “Because I thought she’d be safer without me.” The words came out flat. Hollow. Like I was reading them off a script I didn’t write. Like I was guessing. Like I was lying. But it wasn’t a full lie. It was half true. I didn’t remember leaving her. But if I did, that’s the kind of reason I would give myself. That’s the kind of thing I’d tell myself to make it okay. To make it feel like I had a choice. Like I wasn’t just running. Like I wasn’t just scared. The room didn’t react. The counter kept falling. 233. 232. Then the wall moved. Not the whole wall. Just a section. Near the floor. To the left of the intercom. A rectangle of metal slid sideways. No sound. No warning. Just movement. Just opening. I stood up. The counter hit 231. I walked to the wall. Looked down. The opening was small. Just big enough for my hand. I reached in. Felt around. Cold metal. Rough edges. Something hard at the back. I pulled it out. A knife. Rusted. Dull. The handle wrapped in frayed cloth. The blade short. Thick. Not made for cutting rope or breaking locks. Made for something else. I turned it over. Looked at the edge. No shine. No sharpness. Just age. Just neglect. Just weight in my palm. Under the knife, tucked against the back of the compartment, was another photo. I pulled it out. This one wasn’t outside. No sun. No smiles. No boy. No woman. Just a hospital room. White walls. White sheets. A bed. A figure lying in it. Tubes running from their arm. A machine beside them. Beeping. Or maybe not. I couldn’t hear anything. But I knew what it was. The person in the bed wasn’t the boy. Wasn’t the woman. It was me. Older. Thinner. Pale. Eyes closed. Mouth open. Not sleeping. Not resting. Just… there. I stared at it. The counter hit 230. I looked at the knife again. Turned it in my hand. Felt the weight. The balance. The way the rust flaked off onto my fingers. This wasn’t for escape. This was for sacrifice. I gripped the handle tighter. The photo trembled in my other hand. The room didn’t move. The intercom didn’t speak. The counter kept falling. 229. 228. 227.