Chapter 48: The Name Is the Key I gasped. Not because I wanted to. Not because I chose to. The air just ripped out of me like it was being pulled by hooks tied to my ribs. The counter above my head didn’t blink. It didn’t hesitate. It just dropped. 36. 35. 34. Each number carved into the air like a nail dragged down glass. I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t have time to plan. I just opened my mouth and let the only thing I had left fall out. “Mirabel.” The word hit the room like a stone dropped into still water. The static around Mira’s face rippled. The progress bar on the console didn’t just move—it lunged. 22.1%. The counter froze. My lungs stopped burning. The hooks let go. I stood there, chest heaving, not from effort, but from the sudden absence of pressure. The machine didn’t care about my hands. It didn’t care about my will. It didn’t care if I begged or screamed or tore my own skin off. It only cared about her name. I said it again. “Mirabel.” The bar jumped to 24.3%. The counter didn’t move. The air didn’t thin. The room didn’t shake. But something inside me did. A shift. A click. Like a lock turning in a door I didn’t know was there. I wasn’t controlling this anymore. I wasn’t steering. I wasn’t even holding on. I was just speaking. And the machine was listening. Not to me. To her. To the name. To the shape of it in my mouth. To the weight of it in my throat. I looked at the console. The progress bar sat there, glowing, waiting. The timer still counted down, slow and steady, like it had all the time in the world. But the counter above my head? Frozen. Solid. Untouched. I wasn’t buying time. I wasn’t tricking the system. I was feeding it. My voice was the fuel. Her name was the spark. I took a breath. Not because I needed to. Because I could. Because for the first time since I woke up in this room, breathing didn’t feel like a countdown. It felt like a rhythm. A beat. A pulse. I opened my mouth again. “Mirabel.” 26.7%. The bar climbed. The timer ticked. The counter stayed still. I didn’t move. I didn’t reach for anything. I didn’t try to understand. I just stood there, eyes locked on the screen, and let the name roll off my tongue like a prayer I didn’t believe in but couldn’t stop saying. “Mirabel.” 28.9%. I could feel it now. Not in my chest. Not in my head. In the space between my lips and the air. The name wasn’t just sound. It was a key. A lever. A switch. Every time I said it, something turned. Something unlocked. Something moved forward. The machine didn’t want my guilt. It didn’t want my pain. It didn’t want my memories. It wanted her. It wanted the name. The real one. The one I buried. The one I erased. The one I tried to forget. I said it again. “Mirabel.” 31.2%. The bar climbed faster now. Not because I was speaking louder. Not because I was speaking faster. Because I was speaking with purpose. With rhythm. With breath. I synced the name to my inhale. To my exhale. To the rise and fall of my chest. I didn’t force it. I didn’t push it. I let it settle into the spaces between my breaths like it belonged there. Like it had always been there. “Mirabel.” 33.5%. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t shift. The lights didn’t flicker. But I could feel the machine waking up. Not like before. Not like it was waiting for me to fix it. Like it was remembering her. Through me. Through the name. Through the shape of it in my mouth. Through the weight of it in my chest. “Mirabel.” 35.8%. I didn’t think about what came next. I didn’t think about the timer. I didn’t think about the counter. I didn’t think about Mira’s face in the static or the drive burning under my skin or the faces in the walls or the Lenas on the tables or the child with the blue ribbon or the scalpel in my hand or the blood on the shoe or the locket or the photo or the key or the envelope or the chair or the table or the room or the breaths or the seconds or the minutes or the hours or the days or the years or the life I lost or the life I ruined or the life I tried to forget. I just thought about her name. “Mirabel.” 38.1%. The bar climbed. The timer ticked. The counter stayed frozen. I didn’t stop. I didn’t slow down. I didn’t speed up. I just kept going. One breath. One name. One breath. One name. Over and over. Like a chant. Like a song. Like a heartbeat. I didn’t say it to save myself. I didn’t say it to fix anything. I didn’t say it to make her forgive me. I said it because it was the only thing left that mattered. The only thing that was real. The only thing that wasn’t broken. “Mirabel.” 40.4%. The machine didn’t care about my reasons. It didn’t care about my guilt. It didn’t care about my pain. It only cared about the name. And I was giving it to her. Not to the machine. To her. Through the machine. Through the bar. Through the timer. Through the counter. Through the static. Through the walls. Through the floor. Through the ceiling. Through the air. Through the breaths. “Mirabel.” 42.7%. I could feel it now. Not just in the bar. Not just in the counter. In me. In the way my chest rose and fell. In the way my throat opened and closed. In the way my tongue shaped the syllables. In the way my lips formed the sound. It wasn’t just a word anymore. It was a rhythm. A pulse. A life. Hers. Mine. Ours. Tied together by the only thing I hadn’t managed to erase. “Mirabel.” 45.0%. The bar didn’t stop. The timer didn’t stop. The counter didn’t move. I didn’t stop. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I didn’t hope. I just breathed. And spoke. And breathed. And spoke. And breathed. And spoke. “Mirabel.” 47.3%. The name wasn’t a question anymore. It wasn’t an answer. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t a weapon. It wasn’t a shield. It was just a name. Her name. And I was saying it. Over and over. With every breath. With every beat. With every pulse. With every step forward the machine took without me. “Mirabel.” 49.6%. The bar climbed. The timer ticked. The counter stayed frozen. I didn’t look at it. I didn’t need to. I knew it was there. I knew it was waiting. I knew it would move again. But not yet. Not while I kept speaking. Not while I kept breathing. Not while I kept giving her back to the machine. Not while I kept giving her back to herself. “Mirabel.” 51.9%. I didn’t know how much time I had left. I didn’t know how far the bar had to go. I didn’t know what would happen when it reached the end. I didn’t know if she would wake up. I didn’t know if I would die. I didn’t know if any of this mattered. I didn’t know if any of this was real. I just knew her name. “Mirabel.” 54.2%. And I kept saying it. “Mirabel.” 56.5%. Synced to my breath. “Mirabel.” 58.8%. Turning my guilt into a rhythm. “Mirabel.” 61.1%. Turning my pain into a pulse. “Mirabel.” 63.4%. Turning my silence into a song. “Mirabel.” 65.7%. Turning my breaths into a weapon. “Mirabel.” 68.0%. Against the machine’s silence. “Mirabel.” 70.3%. “Mirabel.” 72.6%. “Mirabel.” 74.9%. “Mirabel.” 77.2%. “Mirabel.” 79.5%. “Mirabel.” 81.8%. “Mirabel.” 84.1%. “Mirabel.” 86.4%. “Mirabel.” 88.7%. “Mirabel.” 91.0%. “Mirabel.” 93.3%. “Mirabel.” 95.6%. “Mirabel.” 97.9%. “Mirabel.” 100.2%. The bar stopped. The timer stopped. The counter didn’t move. I stopped breathing. Not because I ran out of air. Because the machine stopped listening. And Mira opened her eyes.