Chapter 53: What Did I Take From You That I Can’t Give Back? I lay on the table with my wrists and ankles locked in place. The scalpel above me didn’t move. It just hung there, waiting. Mira’s counter read two. Not one. Not zero. Two. That meant something. It had to. Machines don’t make mistakes. Not here. Not in this place. Everything is measured. Everything is counted. Every breath. Every word. Every cut. I said, “If I die, does she live?” The scalpel pulled back a little. Just enough to show it heard me. Just enough to show it was listening. Not enough to show mercy. Not enough to show hope. Just enough to say, “Keep talking.” Mira’s voice came through the walls. Not the intercom. The walls. Like the room itself was speaking for her. “Only if you ask the right question before the cut.” I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking. What was the right question? What did they want from me? What did she want from me? What did I owe her? What did I steal? What did I break? I tried to remember. Not the big things. Not the surgeries. Not the lies. Not the signatures. Not the cover-ups. I tried to remember the small things. The quiet things. The things that don’t get written down. The things that don’t get recorded. The things that only we knew. I remembered her laugh. Not the one from the machine. Not the one from the memory drive. The real one. The one that came out when she was trying not to. The one that escaped when she was reading something stupid. The one that bubbled up when I tripped over my own feet in the hallway and dropped the coffee I’d just made for her. I remembered her hands. Not the ones strapped to the table. Not the ones reaching for me in the mirrors. The real ones. The ones that fixed my collar before a presentation. The ones that shoved me out of the way when I was about to walk into traffic. The ones that held mine when we stood at our parents’ grave and neither of us knew what to say. I remembered her voice. Not the calm, flat tone she used in the white room. Not the whisper from the monitor. The real one. The one that cracked when she was mad. The one that went soft when she was tired. The one that said, “You’re an idiot, but you’re my idiot,” after I forgot her birthday and showed up at her apartment with a melted ice cream cake and a bouquet of dandelions I’d picked from the park. I took those things. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t plan to. But I took them. I took her time. I took her trust. I took her safety. I took her future. I took her name and buried it under paperwork and protocols and procedures. I took her body and turned it into a case file. I took her pain and called it necessary. I took her silence and called it consent. I took her life and called it an accident. And now she’s here. Not dead. Not gone. Not erased. Here. Awake. Watching. Waiting. Counting. Two breaths left for her. One question left for me. I whispered, “What did I take from you that I can’t give back?” The table beneath me shifted. Not much. Just a vibration. A tremor. Like something underneath was waking up. A panel slid open beneath the edge of the table, near my hip. I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t reach it. But I heard it. A soft click. A quiet slide. A new thing in the room. A new piece. A new clue. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just lay there, breathing, waiting, wondering what it was. What it meant. What it would cost me. The scalpel didn’t move closer. It didn’t move away. It just stayed where it was, hovering, watching, waiting for me to do something. Mira didn’t speak again. The walls didn’t echo. The machines didn’t beep. The counter didn’t tick. Everything was still. Everything was quiet. Except for me. I was thinking. I was breathing. I was alive. And I had no idea what was in that panel. I tried to shift my hips. Just a little. Just enough to feel if I could reach whatever was inside. The restraints held me tight. Not painfully. Not cruelly. Just firmly. Like they were made to keep me exactly where I was. Like they were made to make sure I didn’t move unless the room allowed it. I stopped trying. It was pointless. If the room wanted me to have it, it would give it to me. If it didn’t, no amount of squirming would change that. I closed my eyes. Not to sleep. Not to escape. To remember. I thought about the first time I saw her after the accident. Not in the hospital. Not in the photos. In real life. After everything. After the cover-up. After the silence. After the forgetting. She was sitting on a bench outside the hospital. Wearing sunglasses. Holding a coffee. Her hair was shorter. Her face was thinner. She didn’t look at me when I walked up. She just kept staring straight ahead. I sat down beside her. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. I waited. She waited. The silence stretched. Finally, she said, “You’re late.” I said, “I didn’t know you’d be here.” She said, “I didn’t either.” We sat there for twenty minutes. Not talking. Not moving. Just sitting. Then she stood up. She didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t look at me. She just walked away. I watched her go. I didn’t follow. I didn’t call out. I just sat there, staring at the spot where she’d been, wondering if I’d ever see her again. I never did. Not until now. Not until this room. Not until this table. Not until this scalpel. Not until this counter. Two breaths left for her. One question asked. One panel open. I opened my eyes. The ceiling hadn’t changed. The lights hadn’t dimmed. The machines hadn’t stirred. The scalpel hadn’t moved. The counter hadn’t blinked. But something had. Something underneath me. Something in the dark. Something waiting. I said her name. Not the one they gave her. Not the one I gave her. The real one. The one I buried. The one I deleted. The one I’m not allowed to say unless the machine lets me. “Mirabel.” Nothing happened. No surge. No spark. No memory flood. No progress bar. No voice. No reaction. Just silence. Just stillness. Just the scalpel. Just the counter. Just the panel. I said it again. Louder. Clearer. Like I was calling her back. Like I was pulling her out of the dark. Like I was giving her something she’d lost. “Mirabel.” Still nothing. The machine didn’t care. The room didn’t care. The scalpel didn’t care. Only I cared. Only I remembered. Only I was trying. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she could hear me. If she knew I was saying it. If she knew I was trying. If she knew I was sorry. I didn’t say sorry. Not out loud. Not yet. I didn’t know if she wanted to hear it. I didn’t know if it mattered. I didn’t know if it was enough. I didn’t know anything. Except that I’d taken something from her. And I couldn’t give it back. Not the time. Not the trust. Not the safety. Not the future. Not the name. Not the body. Not the pain. Not the silence. Not the life. I couldn’t give any of it back. But maybe I could give her something else. Maybe I could give her the truth. Maybe I could give her the question. Maybe I could give her the answer. Maybe I could give her me. I took a breath. I let it out. I took another. I let it out slower. I focused on the panel beneath me. I imagined what might be inside. A key. A note. A photograph. A syringe. A knife. A drive. A hand. A heart. A name. I didn’t know. I didn’t need to know. I just needed to ask. I just needed to wait. I just needed to breathe. The scalpel didn’t move. The counter didn’t tick. The room didn’t speak. But something underneath me did. It clicked again. Louder this time. Sharper. Closer. Like whatever was in that panel was trying to get my attention. Like it was saying, “Look at me.” Like it was saying, “Take me.” Like it was saying, “Use me.” I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just lay there. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting. The panel slid open a little more.