Chapter 63: What the Boy Saw I didn’t take the scalpel. The boy held it out like it was nothing. Like it was just a tool. Like it was just metal. Like it wasn’t the thing that carved the shape of my failure into the world. I stared at it. I stared at him. I stared at the hallway behind us, frozen in that yellow hospital glow, the cracked linoleum, the chipped paint, the silence that wasn’t silence but the absence of screams I should have made. I didn’t reach for it. Instead, I said, “What did you see?” The boy didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just kept holding the scalpel out, arm steady, fingers curled around the handle like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he was born knowing how to hold it. “What did you see that night?” I asked again. My voice didn’t shake. It didn’t break. It just sat there, flat and heavy, like a stone dropped into still water. “What promise did you break?” The boy’s face changed. Not slowly. Not dramatically. Just a tightening around the eyes. A hardening of the jaw. A shift in the way he stood, like he was bracing for something he already knew was coming. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was the answer. His silence was the lie I told myself for years. His silence was the moment I stopped being a brother and started being something else. He dropped the scalpel. It hit the floor with a sharp, metallic clatter. The sound didn’t echo. It didn’t bounce off the walls. It just cut through the stillness like a knife through skin. And then the hallway wasn’t frozen anymore. It moved. Not the walls. Not the lights. Not the air. The memory. It flooded in, not like a wave, but like a door being kicked open. One second, I was standing there, staring at the boy, the scalpel on the floor between us. The next, I was back in that hallway, but I wasn’t me. I was him. I was the boy. I was ten years old, wearing a sweater too big for me, sleeves rolled up twice, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. I saw her. Mirabel. Six years old. Small. Wearing that hospital gown two sizes too big, the hem brushing the tops of her bare feet. Her hair in two uneven pigtails, one higher than the other. She held that stuffed rabbit in one hand, its ear frayed from too much love. Her other hand was wrapped around my wrist, fingers tight, like she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go. I heard myself say it again. “I won’t let them take you.” I felt her fingers tighten. I felt the weight of her trust. I felt the heat of her fear, even though she didn’t cry. She just stared at me, eyes unblinking, like she was memorizing my face. Like she knew this was the last time she’d see me like this—whole, unbroken, promising things I didn’t understand. I said it again. “I won’t. No matter what they say. No matter what they do. I’ll stay right here. I’ll fight them. I’ll scream. I’ll break things. I’ll—I’ll steal you out if I have to. I swear.” She nodded. Just once. Slow. Deliberate. Like she was sealing the promise in blood. Then she let go of my wrist. I stood up. I looked down at her for a long moment. I turned. I walked away without looking back. I didn’t see them come for her. I didn’t hear her cry. I didn’t feel her reach for me. I just walked. And then, in the memory, I stopped. Not because I heard something. Not because I felt something. Because I saw something. I turned my head, just a little, just enough to see down the hallway behind me. Two orderlies. Big men in white coats. One had her by the arm. The other had her around the waist. She was struggling. Not screaming. Not crying. Just struggling. Silent. Desperate. Her feet kicked at the air. Her fingers clawed at their arms. The stuffed rabbit fell to the floor. One of the orderlies bent down, picked it up, and handed it back to her. She clutched it to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her alive. I stood there. Frozen. Watching. I didn’t move. I didn’t shout. I didn’t run back. I just stood there, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding so loud I thought it would burst. I didn’t fight. The memory snapped. I was back in the hallway. The boy was gone. The scalpel was still on the floor. The air was thick, heavy, pressing down on me like a weight. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. Not from fear. From rage. From shame. From the sheer, stupid, cowardly truth of it. I whispered it. “I didn’t fight.” The words barely made it past my lips. Barely made it into the air. But the walls heard them. They began to bleed. Not water. Not paint. Ink. Black, thick, viscous ink, oozing out of the cracks in the walls, dripping down the chipped paint, pooling on the cracked linoleum. It didn’t spread. It didn’t smear. It formed lines. Letters. Names. I stepped closer. The first name I saw was Mirabel. Then another. And another. And another. Names I didn’t recognize. Names I’d forgotten. Names I’d buried under layers of denial and distraction. Names of people I’d failed. People I’d hurt. People I’d let down. People I’d promised to protect and didn’t. The ink kept coming. The names kept forming. The walls kept bleeding. I didn’t move. I just stood there, staring at the names, one after another, each one a knife in my chest, each one a reminder of the promises I broke, the fights I didn’t fight, the people I left behind. The ink dripped onto the floor, pooling around my feet, cold and sticky, soaking into my shoes, climbing up my legs, wrapping around me like a shroud. I didn’t fight.