Chapter 37: You’re Choosing the Wrong Memory I picked up the scalpel. It came loose from the floor without resistance. No click, no grind, no warning. Just metal sliding free like it had been waiting for my fingers to close around it. I turned toward Mira. She hadn’t moved. Not an inch. Her hand still hovered where it had been, just above my chest, above the red numbers that kept counting down even when I didn’t want them to. Forty-three. I stepped toward her. Not fast. Not slow. Just forward. The scalpel felt heavier than it should. Not because of its weight, but because of what it meant. Every time I held it, something changed. Something broke. Something remembered. “What does ‘delete’ mean?” I asked. She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me. Not like she was deciding whether to speak. Not like she was choosing her words. Like she already knew what I would ask, and had been waiting for me to get there. “Not metaphor,” I said. “Not guilt. Not regret. Not memory loss. What does it mean? Technically. Exactly. What did I do to you?” She reached out. Not for the scalpel. Not for me. Just her hand, palm up, fingers open. An invitation. A command. I didn’t know which. I didn’t care. I placed the scalpel in her hand. She didn’t take it from me. She guided my hand instead. Turned my wrist. Lifted my arm. Brought the tip of the blade to my own temple. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even breathe. Her fingers pressed mine. The scalpel didn’t cut. Not yet. It just rested there. Cold. Still. Waiting. Then it pulsed. Not in my hand. Not against my skin. Inside my head. Like something had plugged itself into the back of my skull and flipped a switch. My vision didn’t blur. It split. One Mira. Then two. Then three. Then ten. Then too many to count. Each one different. Each one dying. One Mira on an operating table, eyes open, mouth moving but no sound coming out. My hand holding the scalpel above her chest. Not cutting. Not yet. Just waiting. Like I was deciding whether she deserved to live. Another Mira in a hospital bed, tubes in her arms, machines beeping around her. My hand holding the scalpel again. This time, I was cutting. Not her. The wires. The monitors. The things keeping her alive. I was disconnecting her. On purpose. Another Mira standing in a white room, just like this one. No table. No machines. Just her and me. I held the scalpel to her throat. She didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just looked at me like she already knew how this would end. I pressed. Blood welled. She didn’t make a sound. Another Mira curled up on the floor, hands over her head. I stood over her. Scalpel raised. Not to kill. To erase. To make sure no one would ever find her again. To make sure no one would ever ask what happened. Another Mira screaming. Not in pain. In betrayal. I didn’t care. I cut anyway. Not deep. Just enough. Just enough to make her stop talking. Just enough to make her stop remembering. Just enough to make her stop being Mira. Another Mira smiling. Smiling at me. Like she trusted me. Like she thought I would protect her. I smiled back. Then I cut. Right across her cheek. Just to see if she’d still smile after. Another Mira running. I chased her. Caught her. Pinned her down. Held the scalpel to her eye. Not to blind her. To record. To imprint. To make sure whatever she saw, whatever she knew, would be burned into my own mind when I took it from her. Another Mira already dead. Lying still. Eyes closed. I knelt beside her. Pressed the scalpel into her palm. Closed her fingers around it. Then I stood up. Walked away. Left her there. Like she was nothing. Like she had never been anything. Another Mira alive. Breathing. Watching me. Not afraid. Not angry. Just waiting. Like she had always known this was coming. Like she had let it happen. Like she had wanted it to happen. My hand. In every one. Holding the scalpel. Always holding the scalpel. Forty-two. Mira’s fingers tightened around mine. Not to stop me. To guide me. Her grip shifted, pulling my wrist down, angling the blade toward my throat. The tip kissed my skin. A whisper of pressure. A promise of opening. I didn’t move. I let her steer me. I let her decide where the blade would go. Because I didn’t know anymore. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I didn’t know what I was supposed to remember. I didn’t know what I was supposed to undo. The room cracked. Not the walls. Not the floor. The air. The space between me and Mira. Between me and the memories. Between me and the truth. The surgical theaters appeared all at once. Not side by side. Not one after another. All of them. Overlapping. Layered. Transparent and solid at the same time. Each one replaying a different version of Mira’s deletion. In one, I’m calm. Methodical. I make the incision with precision. No hesitation. No remorse. I’m a surgeon. This is procedure. This is protocol. This is necessary. In another, I’m shaking. My hands won’t steady. I keep stopping. Starting. Stopping again. I whisper apologies between breaths. I beg her to forgive me. She doesn’t answer. She just watches. Her eyes follow the blade like it’s the last thing she’ll ever see. In a third, I’m not even holding the scalpel. Someone else is. Someone wearing my face. Someone who looks like me but moves differently. Speaks differently. Thinks differently. He doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t hesitate. He just cuts. And Mira doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry. She just closes her eyes. In a fourth, there’s no scalpel at all. Just a syringe. Just a needle. Just a slow push of liquid into her vein. She doesn’t fight. She doesn’t even look at me. She stares at the ceiling. Counts the tiles. Counts her breaths. Counts down to zero. In a fifth, I’m not the one doing it. I’m watching. From the corner. From behind glass. From a monitor. I’m recording. Logging. Documenting. I’m not the surgeon. I’m the observer. The witness. The one who signs off on it afterward. In a sixth, I’m begging her to do it herself. I hand her the scalpel. I tell her it’s the only way. I tell her it’s kinder this way. She takes it. Turns it over in her hands. Studies the edge. Then she hands it back. “You started this,” she says. “You finish it.” In a seventh, I’m not even in the room. I’m outside. Listening. Hearing the machines flatline. Hearing the silence after. Hearing my own breath catch. Hearing the door open. Hearing footsteps walk away. Hearing nothing else ever again. In an eighth, I’m holding her hand. Not the scalpel. Her hand. I’m crying. I’m apologizing. I’m promising it’ll be quick. I’m promising it won’t hurt. I’m lying. I know it’ll hurt. I know it’ll hurt more than anything. But I do it anyway. Because I have to. Because I was told to. Because I signed the form. Because I gave the order. In a ninth, I’m not holding anything. I’m just standing there. Watching. Doing nothing. Letting it happen. Letting someone else do it. Letting the system do it. Letting the protocol do it. Letting the silence do it. In a tenth, I’m not even real. I’m a shadow. A reflection. A memory that doesn’t belong to me. I’m watching myself do it. And I don’t recognize the man holding the blade. I don’t recognize his face. His hands. His eyes. I don’t recognize the way he moves. The way he breathes. The way he doesn’t flinch. Forty-one. Mira’s fingers tightened again. Her breath didn’t change. Her eyes didn’t blink. She was still guiding me. Still steering the blade. Still waiting for me to choose. I could let her guide me. I could let the blade go where she wanted it to go. I could let it cut right. Straight down the center. The cleanest incision. The most efficient. The one that would end it fastest. Or I could choose. I could move my hand. Just a little. Just enough. Just to the left. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I didn’t calculate. I just moved. The blade slid left. Not far. Not deep. Just enough to miss the center. Just enough to miss the path she had chosen for me. The room screamed. Not me. Not Mira. The room. The walls. The air. The light. Everything bent. Everything twisted. Everything shattered. The surgical theaters collapsed into each other. The versions of Mira merged. The versions of me dissolved. The memories folded in on themselves like paper burning at the edges. A new sound cut through the chaos. A mechanical whir. A hydraulic hiss. A door unlocking. Behind me. To my left. Where the blade had pointed. I turned. A door stood there. It hadn’t been there before. It was small. Unmarked. Except for one word etched into the metal above the frame. RECALL: UNAUTHORIZED. The scalpel was still in my hand. Mira’s fingers were still wrapped around mine. Her grip hadn’t loosened. Her expression hadn’t changed. But her voice did. Soft. Quiet. Almost gentle. “You’re choosing the wrong memory.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t argue. I didn’t ask what she meant. I just stepped forward. Toward the door. Toward the word. Toward whatever waited on the other side. The scalpel stayed in my grip. Mira didn’t let go.