Chapter 47: I’m Not the Architect The screen stayed at 18.3%. No flicker. No glitch. No mercy. Just that number, hanging there like it had all the time in the world while I had none. Mirabel’s laughter had faded, but the echo of it still sat in my skull, sharp and bright and wrong. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I just stared at the screen like it owed me something. Like if I looked hard enough, it would give me back control. Like if I believed hard enough, I could will the progress bar to move without me. I said her name. “Mirabel.” The screen jumped. 21.7%. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t gasp. I didn’t even blink. I just watched the number climb, slow and steady, like it was feeding off the syllables. Like my voice was fuel. Like every time I spoke her name, I gave the machine a piece of myself to chew on. I said it again. “Mirabel.” 24.9%. The air in the room didn’t change. The walls didn’t shift. The floor didn’t tremble. But something inside me did. A pull. A tug. Like a string tied to my ribs, yanked every time the bar moved. I felt it in my chest. In my throat. In the back of my skull. Not pain. Not yet. Just weight. Just cost. I started talking. Not to the machine. Not to the room. Not even to her. I talked to the silence. I talked to the static. I talked to the ghosts in the walls. I talked to the version of me that used to know her. The version that held her hand. The version that signed the papers. The version that picked up the scalpel. I told her about the first time I saw her cry. She was six. I was ten. She dropped her ice cream on the sidewalk and just stood there, staring at the mess like the world had ended. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have money for another one. So I knelt down, scooped up the least dirty part with my fingers, and handed it back to her. She looked at me like I was insane. Then she laughed. Then she ate it. Then she hugged me. I told the room that. I told the machine that. I told the air that. 27.3%. I told her about the time she stole my favorite shirt and wore it to school. It was too big for her. The sleeves hung past her hands. She rolled them up, but they kept falling down. She came home with ink stains on the cuffs and grass stains on the hem. I yelled at her. She didn’t care. She just grinned and said it smelled like me. I told the room that. I told the machine that. I told the air that. 30.1%. I told her about the night before her surgery. She was scared. She didn’t say it, but I knew. She sat on the edge of my bed, swinging her legs, pretending to read a book upside down. I didn’t know what to say. So I told her a stupid joke. The worst joke I knew. She groaned. Then she laughed. Then she threw a pillow at me. Then she hugged me. I told the room that. I told the machine that. I told the air that. 32.8%. My knees buckled. I caught myself on the console. My fingers dug into the edge. My breath came shallow. Fast. Too fast. The counter above my head didn’t move. It stayed frozen. But my body didn’t care. My lungs burned. My ribs ached. My vision blurred at the edges. I didn’t stop talking. I told her about the blue ribbon. The one she always wore in her hair. The one she refused to take off, even for surgery. The one I tucked into my pocket after they wheeled her away. I told the room that. I told the machine that. I told the air that. 35.1%. I dropped. Not fell. Not collapsed. Dropped. Like my bones turned to water. Like my muscles forgot how to hold me up. I hit the floor hard. My knees cracked against the tile. My palms scraped. I didn’t care. I didn’t move. I just stayed there, on my knees, head bowed, breath ragged. I whispered. “I’m not the architect…” The words came out broken. Thin. Like they were being pulled from me by force. “…but I’m still your brother.”