Chapter 58: Start Small I dropped to my knees. Not because I was afraid. Not because I was begging. Not because the scalpel in her hand looked sharp or because her eyes looked ready to cut me open without it. I dropped because I had nothing left to stand on. No pride. No plan. No plea. Just the truth, heavy and plain, sitting in my chest like a stone I’d carried too long. “I’m not here to fix it,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. It didn’t break. It just came out, flat and final, like a signature at the bottom of a form you know you shouldn’t sign but do anyway. “I’m here to carry it.” The scalpel vanished. Not with a flash. Not with a sound. One moment it was there, glinting under the light, the next it was gone. Like it had never been real. Like it had only ever been a question I hadn’t answered yet. Mirabel didn’t move. Her face didn’t soften. Her hands didn’t lower. She just stood there, barefoot on nothing, shirt gray, hair tied back, eyes locked on me like she was waiting to see if I’d say it again. Or if I’d take it back. I didn’t. The light around us cracked. Not like glass breaking. Not like ice splitting. Like a map tearing along old creases. Lines shot out from where we stood, thin and bright, carving the air into corridors. Each one stretched away into its own direction, vanishing into a glow that didn’t fade so much as swallow. Above each corridor, words burned into the air like brands. BREATH #2: FIRST LAUGH BREATH #3: FIRST STEP BREATH #4: FIRST WORD BREATH #5: FIRST FEAR And on and on, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, each one labeled with a moment I stole. A moment I buried. A moment I pretended never happened because it was easier than remembering what I’d done to her. I didn’t look at the others. I didn’t scan the list. I didn’t try to find the big ones—the surgery, the silence, the scalpel, the signature. I didn’t look for the ones that would hurt the most. I looked at the first one that made sense. The one that came after the first breath I’d already given back. BREATH #2: FIRST LAUGH I stood up. My knees didn’t ache. My legs didn’t tremble. I just rose, slow and steady, like I was stepping onto a train I’d been waiting for. I didn’t look at Mirabel. I didn’t ask if I was doing it right. I didn’t wait for permission. I walked toward the corridor labeled with her second breath. The air didn’t change as I stepped inside. No wind. No chill. No shift in pressure. Just the walls closing in behind me, smooth and silent, sealing me in with the memory I was about to face. Mirabel’s voice followed me in. Not loud. Not angry. Not sad. Just there, like she’d been waiting to say it since the beginning. “Start small,” she whispered. “They all break you small.” The corridor didn’t move. The walls didn’t shift. The label above me didn’t change. I stood there, alone, with nothing but the words hanging in the air and the weight of what I’d promised pressing down on my shoulders. I took a step forward. Then another. Then another. The light ahead didn’t brighten. It didn’t dim. It just stayed the same, steady and waiting, like it had all the time in the world. I kept walking.