Chapter 38: The Version That Chose to Forget I pushed the door open. It didn’t fight me. No resistance. No groan of metal. No hiss of hydraulics. Just a quiet parting, like the room had been waiting for me to make the choice. The scalpel was still in my hand. Mira’s fingers hadn’t let go. They stayed wrapped around mine, guiding nothing now, just holding on like I might vanish if she loosened her grip. The air on the other side was different. Not colder. Not thinner. Just still. Like time had stopped breathing here. I stepped through. The floor was smooth. White. Seamless. No scuffs. No dust. No footprints. Like no one had ever walked here before me. Rows of shelves stretched ahead. Not bookshelves. Not storage racks. These were narrow, vertical slots, each holding a single black rectangle. No labels on the front. No buttons. No lights. Just smooth, silent slabs embedded in the wall. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. All identical. All waiting. Mira let go of my hand. She walked ahead without looking back. Her steps didn’t echo. Didn’t make a sound at all. She moved like she belonged here. Like she’d walked this path a hundred times before. I followed. I didn’t have a choice. The scalpel felt heavier now. Not because it weighed more. Because I knew what it had done. What I had done with it. What I was still holding. She stopped at one of the slots. Third row from the top. Seventh from the left. She reached out and pulled the black rectangle free. It came loose without a click. Without a hum. Just slid out like it had been waiting for her fingers. She turned to face me. The drive was small in her hands. Sleek. Cold. No wires. No ports. Just a flat surface with a single line of text etched into the side. FINAL ERASURE. I stared at it. I didn’t ask what it was. I didn’t need to. I already knew. Or at least, I knew what it meant. What it represented. What it held. “What’s on it?” I asked anyway. She didn’t answer right away. Just held it out toward me. Not offering. Not demanding. Just presenting it. Like a verdict. Like a sentence. Like a mirror. “The version of you that chose to forget me,” she said. Her voice wasn’t angry. Wasn’t sad. Wasn’t anything. Just flat. Just fact. Like she was reading from a manual. Like she was stating the weather. Like it didn’t matter to her anymore. I looked at the drive. Then at her. Then back at the drive. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. The counter on my chest ticked down. Forty-four. Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-one. Forty. I reached for the drive.