Chapter 39: The Mirrors Remember What You Forgot I stepped through the door marked RECALL: UNAUTHORIZED, and the air changed. Not in temperature. Not in pressure. Just in weight. Like walking into a room where someone had been waiting for you to arrive before they started screaming. Mira’s fingers stayed locked around my wrist. Not tight. Not loose. Just there. Like she was making sure I didn’t vanish halfway through whatever came next. I didn’t try to pull away. I didn’t want to. Not yet. The room ahead wasn’t a room. It was a corridor of glass. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, every surface was a mirror. But not the kind that showed me. These showed her. Mira. Dozens of her. Hundreds. Maybe more. Each reflection caught in a different moment. Some crying. Some screaming. Some silent, eyes wide, mouth open like she was trying to say something but the sound had been cut out. Others were strapped down. Others were standing. Others were holding scalpels themselves. Others were bleeding. Others were smiling. Others were gone. Every mirror had a label beneath it. Not names. Not dates. Just versions. MIRA — PRE-OP CALM MIRA — POST-ERASURE PROTEST MIRA — VERSION 7: TERMINATED CONSENT MIRA — VERSION 12: STILL BEGGING MIRA — VERSION 23: YOU DIDN’T EVEN LOOK I stopped walking. Mira didn’t. She pulled me forward another step. Then another. My boots made no sound against the floor. The mirrors didn’t reflect me at all. Only her. Only the versions of her I had made. I raised the scalpel. It felt heavier than before. Not because it weighed more. Because I knew what it had done. What I had done with it. What I was still holding. I slashed it sideways across the nearest mirror. The glass didn’t crack. It didn’t shatter. It split open like skin. A clean, surgical cut. And from inside that cut, a voice came out. “Stop.” It was Mira’s voice. But not the one beside me. This one was younger. Terrified. Begging. “Please, stop. I didn’t sign for this. I didn’t agree. You can’t—” I slashed the next mirror. Another voice. “Don’t erase me. I’m still here. I’m still me. You don’t get to decide what I am.” I slashed the third. “Why won’t you listen? I’m not a subject. I’m not data. I’m your sister.” I slashed the fourth. “You promised you’d protect me.” Fifth. “You said you’d never hurt me.” Sixth. “You lied.” Seventh. “I trusted you.” Eighth. “I still do.” Ninth. “Why?” Tenth. “Why me?” Eleventh. “Why not just kill me?” Twelfth. “You did.” Thirteenth. “You’re doing it again.” Fourteenth. “Stop.” Fifteenth. “Stop.” Sixteenth. “Stop.” I kept slashing. Mirror after mirror. Voice after voice. Each one a different plea. A different accusation. A different version of the same moment. The same betrayal. The same deletion. Mira didn’t say anything. She just held my wrist. Guiding me forward. Not stopping me. Not encouraging me. Just making sure I didn’t turn around. The voices didn’t fade. They layered. Stacked. Overlapped. Became a chorus. A choir of Miras, all screaming at once, all begging, all accusing, all broken in different ways but all broken by me. I slashed faster. The mirrors didn’t resist. They opened like wounds. Each cut released another fragment of her. Another memory I had buried. Another truth I had overwritten. I didn’t remember doing any of it. But my hands did. My fingers knew the angle. The pressure. The exact motion needed to split the glass without shattering it. Like I had done this before. Like I had practiced. Maybe I had. Maybe this wasn’t the first time I had walked down this corridor. Maybe this wasn’t the first time I had cut these mirrors open. Maybe I had done it a hundred times. Maybe I had done it until there was nothing left of her but echoes. The counter on my chest ticked down. Forty-four. Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-one. Forty. I didn’t stop. I slashed another mirror. The glass didn’t open this time. It shattered. Not into pieces. Into shards. Sharp. Jagged. Glowing faintly blue. Like broken data. Like corrupted files. Like memories that had been ripped out of their context and left to bleed. The shards didn’t fall to the floor. They flew. Straight at me. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t move. I just stood there as the first shard hit my chest. It didn’t cut. It didn’t pierce. It sank in. Like it was meant to be there. Like it was coming home. Another shard hit my shoulder. Another my neck. Another my forearm. Another my temple. Each one burned. Not with heat. With recognition. With memory. With truth. I felt them rewrite me. Not overwrite. Not erase. Rewrite. Like code being corrected. Like a corrupted file being restored. Like a story being told the way it was supposed to be told. I saw things. Not in order. Not clearly. But I saw them. I saw myself holding her down while she screamed. I saw myself signing forms while she begged. I saw myself pressing the scalpel to her skin while she cried. I saw myself deleting her consent while she watched. I saw myself erasing her name while she whispered it. I saw myself killing her while she forgave me. I saw myself doing it again. And again. And again. Each shard carried a piece of it. Each one forced me to remember what I had done. Not as a surgeon. Not as a brother. As a destroyer. Mira still held my wrist. Her grip hadn’t changed. Her face hadn’t moved. Her eyes were on me. Not angry. Not sad. Just watching. Like she had always known this would happen. Like she had been waiting for me to catch up. The shards kept coming. They embedded themselves in my skin. In my bones. In my mind. They didn’t hurt. They remembered for me. The counter dropped. Thirty-nine.