Chapter 59: The Night Before I didn’t move. Not because I couldn’t. Not because I was afraid of the scalpel. Not even because Mirabel’s eyes pinned me like she was already stitching me shut with her stare. I didn’t move because the truth sat in my throat like a stone I’d swallowed years ago and forgot was still there. Heavy. Sharp. Unavoidable. She didn’t blink. Didn’t shift her weight. Didn’t lower the blade. She just waited. Like she’d been waiting since the first time I looked away from her in that hospital room. Since the first time I signed something without reading the fine print. Since the first time I told myself it was for her own good. “The night before the surgery,” I said. My voice didn’t crack. Didn’t waver. It came out flat, like a diagnosis delivered to a stranger. Like I was reading from a chart I didn’t care about. “When I signed the override without letting her speak.” The scalpel vanished. Not with a flicker. Not with a sound. One moment it was there, cold and certain in her grip. The next, it was gone. Like it had never existed. 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 drop. 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 corridor behind her split. Not like glass breaking. Not like a door opening. Like the air itself tore along invisible seams, peeling back into three separate paths. Each one stretched away into its own direction, vanishing into a glow that didn’t fade so much as swallow. Above each path, words burned into the air like brands. VERSION ONE: YOU ASKED HER VERSION TWO: YOU IGNORED HER VERSION THREE: YOU LIED TO HER I didn’t look at the others. I didn’t scan the list. I didn’t try to guess which one hid the version where I was still the hero. I didn’t look for the one that would hurt the least. I looked at the first one that made sense. The one that came after the scalpel vanished. VERSION ONE: YOU ASKED HER I took a step forward. Then another. Then another. The air didn’t change as I stepped toward it. 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. “Choose wrong,” she whispered, “and you’ll carry the lie instead of the truth.” I stopped at the threshold. The path 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 looked back at her. She didn’t move. I looked at the other two paths. VERSION TWO: YOU IGNORED HER VERSION THREE: YOU LIED TO HER I turned back to the first. I took a breath. Then I stepped inside.