Chapter 7: The Shoe Knows I bent down and picked up the shoe. It was small. Brown. The laces were frayed. The heel was worn thin. The sole cracked in two places near the toe. I turned it over in my hands. The inside was dark. Not just dirty. Not just old. Blood. Dry. Flaking. I brushed my thumb along the inner edge and watched red dust come off onto my skin. I didn’t wipe it off. I just kept turning the shoe. Looking at it. Like if I stared long enough, it would tell me something I didn’t already know. The intercom crackled. Not the cold voice. Not the warm one. Not even the one that sounded like her. This time, it was mine. “Ask her name.” I didn’t move. I didn’t look up. I just stood there holding the shoe, my thumb still pressed against the dried blood inside. The voice didn’t repeat itself. It didn’t need to. I heard it. I knew what it wanted. I knew what it meant. I didn’t know how I knew. But I did. I whispered. “Lena.” The word left my mouth before I could stop it. Before I could think. Before I could lie. It just came out. Like it had been waiting behind my teeth. Like it had been carved into my tongue. Like I’d said it a thousand times before. Like I’d screamed it. Like I’d begged it. Like I’d cursed it. The walls split open. Not slowly. Not with warning. Not with sound. One second, I was standing in the same white room, holding a child’s shoe soaked in old blood. The next, the walls peeled apart like paper. Vertical seams appeared where none had been. Panels slid sideways. Metal groaned but didn’t scream. Light from the other side spilled in—dim, yellow, flickering. A corridor. Narrow. Long. Lit by bulbs that buzzed but didn’t die. The floor was concrete. The ceiling low. The air smelled stale but not dead. The counter dropped. From 217 to 207. Ten breaths gone. Just like that. No warning. No question. No choice. Just gone. I stepped forward. I didn’t look back. I didn’t drop the shoe. I didn’t think about what I was leaving behind. I just moved. One foot in front of the other. The shoe still in my hand. My thumb still pressed against the inside. The blood still flaking onto my skin. I crossed the threshold. The walls sealed shut behind me. No click. No hiss. No finality. Just silence. Like they’d never been open. Like I’d never been in that room. Like none of it had happened. The corridor stretched ahead. Straight. No turns. No doors. No windows. Just walls. Just floor. Just ceiling. Just light. Flickering. Buzzing. Dying but not dead. I walked. Slow at first. Then faster. Not because I was scared. Not because I was running. Because something pulled me forward. Something in the air. Something in the silence. Something in the shape of the corridor. Something in the way the light bent at the far end. Something in the way my feet hit the ground. Like I’d walked this before. Like I knew where it led. Like I was supposed to be here. I heard it then. A sob. Distant. Faint. Childlike. Not loud. Not desperate. Just there. Like it had always been there. Like it had been waiting for me to hear it. Like it had been calling me without making a sound. I stopped walking. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t call out. I didn’t drop the shoe. I just stood there. Listening. Breathing. Counting. 207. 206. 205. The sob came again. Closer this time. Or maybe I was closer to it. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t try to. I just stood there. Holding the shoe. Listening to the sound. Feeling the blood on my thumb. Watching the light flicker ahead. I took another step. Then another. The sob didn’t stop. It followed me. Or maybe I followed it. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I just walked. The corridor didn’t change. The walls didn’t shift. The lights didn’t die. The air didn’t thin. The counter kept falling. 204. 203. 202. The sob grew louder. Not because it was closer. Because I was listening harder. Because I was remembering how to listen. Because I was remembering what that sound meant. Because I was remembering who made it. Because I was remembering why. I didn’t stop. I didn’t speak. I didn’t look down at the shoe. I just walked. The sob echoed ahead.