Chapter 55: Let Him Carry It I pulled the chip from the panel near my hip. It was small, cold, and heavier than it looked. The label read “MIRABEL’S LAST CHOICE.” I turned it over in my fingers. No ridges. No buttons. Just smooth edges and that name carved in thin black letters. I didn’t know what it did. I didn’t know if it would help or kill me. But I knew I had to use it. There was nothing else left. I looked at the console beside the table. It was the same one that rejected me before. The one that called me architect and then took it back. The screen was dark. No progress bar. No timer. No messages. Just black glass reflecting my face, pale and tired, with that glowing “1” on my chest pulsing under my shirt. I pressed the chip against the port on the side of the console. It clicked. The screen lit up. Not with text. Not with numbers. With her. Mirabel. Not Mira. Not the version strapped to tables or whispering from walls. Not the ghost in the mirrors or the voice in my head. This was her. Real. Alive. Before everything. Before me. She sat in a chair. Plain white room. No machines. No restraints. Just her, wearing a loose gray shirt, hair tied back, eyes tired but clear. She looked straight at me. Not through a camera. Not through memory. Like she knew I’d be watching. Like she left this for me on purpose. She didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. Didn’t look angry. Just still. Quiet. Like she’d been waiting. Then she spoke. “Let him carry it.” That was all. Three words. No explanation. No plea. No accusation. Just those words, soft but certain, like she’d practiced them a hundred times before saying them out loud. The screen went black. I stood there. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The chip stayed in the port. The console didn’t react. No alarms. No doors opening. No new messages. Just silence and that single sentence hanging in the air like it was carved into the walls. Let him carry it. I said it out loud. “Let him carry it.” Nothing happened. I said it again. Louder. “Let him carry it.” Still nothing. I looked down at my chest. The “1” pulsed. Slow. Steady. Like it was counting something else now. Not breaths. Not time. Something deeper. I turned away from the console. Walked to the far wall of the surgical bay. Ran my hands along the surface. Cold. Seamless. No cracks. No handles. No signs of a door. I pressed my palms flat against it. Pushed. Nothing gave. I stepped back. Looked at the ceiling. The floor. The table. The machines. Everything was still. Silent. Waiting. I didn’t know what “carry it” meant. The guilt? The memory? The breath? The name? All of it? None of it? I closed my eyes. Thought about her voice. The way she said it. Not like a command. Not like a request. Like a decision. Like she’d already made up her mind and was just telling me what came next. I opened my eyes. Walked back to the console. Pulled the chip out. Held it in my palm. Then I walked to the center of the room. Stood there. Facing the wall that should’ve been a door. I took a breath. Said her name. Not Mira. Not the nickname. Not the patient ID. Her real name. The one I buried. The one I deleted. The one I stole. “Mirabel.” I said it like surrender. Like I was handing her back everything I took. Like I was done fighting. Like I was done pretending I didn’t know what I did. Like I was done being the architect. Like I was just her brother again. The wall split open. No sound. No warning. Just a clean, straight line down the middle, widening slowly, revealing blinding white light beyond. Not a room. Not a corridor. Just light. Thick. Pure. Endless. I didn’t hesitate. I stepped through. The light swallowed me. The “1” on my chest pulsed once. Then again. Then again. In time with something ahead. Something faint. Something alive. A heartbeat.