Chapter 32: The Fifty Left I took another step toward her. The twenty-nine hands stayed on my shoulders. I didn’t shrug them off. I didn’t acknowledge them. I just moved forward like they weren’t there, like they were part of the air, part of the room, part of me. Mira didn’t flinch. She didn’t lean back. She didn’t brace. She just watched me come closer, her eyes steady, her posture unchanged. I stopped three feet from the table. Close enough to see the faint pulse in her neck. Close enough to smell the sterile wipe still clinging to her skin. Close enough to reach out and touch her if I wanted to. I didn’t. I asked the question. “Why did you let me live?” The words came out flat. Not angry. Not pleading. Not even curious. Just a statement shaped like a question, thrown into the space between us like a stone dropped into a well. I waited for the echo. I waited for the room to react. I waited for the hands to tighten or vanish or shove me backward. I waited for Mira to blink, to shift, to sigh, to look away. She did none of those things. The hands vanished. Not slowly. Not with a sound. Not with a ripple or a fade. One moment they were there, pressing into my shoulders like anchors, and the next they were gone. No warmth left behind. No pressure lingering. Just absence. Like they’d never been there at all. I didn’t turn. I didn’t check. I knew. My body knew. The space where they’d been felt hollow, like a missing tooth, like a skipped heartbeat. The lights dimmed. Not the whole room. Just everything except the space directly above Mira. A single spotlight, sharp and white, pinned her to the table. The rest of the room—the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the space behind me—faded into shadow. Not darkness. Not black. Just absence of light. Like the room had decided nothing else mattered. Like the only thing worth seeing was her. I didn’t move. She didn’t move. The silence stretched. Not heavy. Not tense. Just… waiting. Like the room was holding its breath. Like I was holding mine. I could feel the counter on my chest. Not ticking. Not glowing. Just there. A weight. A presence. A reminder. Mira opened her mouth. Just a fraction. Just enough. Her voice was quiet. Not a whisper. Not a murmur. Just… small. Like she was speaking to herself. Like she was remembering something she hadn’t said out loud in a long time. “Because someone had to remember what you erased.” The words landed. Not like a punch. Not like a revelation. Like a key turning in a lock I didn’t know existed. I didn’t understand them. Not fully. Not yet. But I felt them. In my chest. In my throat. In the space behind my eyes. The counter on my chest flickered. Not a glitch. Not a stutter. A deliberate, mechanical blink. Like it was waking up. Like it was reminding me it was still there. Still counting. Still measuring. The numbers changed. 300. 299. 298. All the breaths I’d spent, all the choices I’d made, all the rooms I’d walked through—they collapsed into a single, stark number. 50. Fifty breaths left. I didn’t look down. I didn’t need to. I felt it. The weight of it. The finality of it. Fifty breaths. Not enough to run. Not enough to hide. Not enough to pretend. Mira didn’t look away. The spotlight didn’t move. The room didn’t change. I stood there. Fifty breaths left.