Chapter 64: This Time, Don’t Let Go I took the scalpel. Not because I wanted to. Not because I believed it would fix anything. I took it because the boy held it out like it was the only thing left in the world that still made sense. His fingers didn’t tremble. His eyes didn’t plead. He just stood there, waiting for me to reach for it like I was supposed to have done years ago. Like I was supposed to have done before everything broke. The metal felt cold in my palm. Not the cold of steel. The cold of something that had waited too long to be touched. I didn’t look at the blade. I didn’t need to. I knew its shape. I knew its weight. I knew the way it would feel pressed against skin. I had held it before. In operating rooms. In nightmares. In memories I tried to bury. Now it was back. And it fit. Mirabel didn’t speak. Not a word. Not even a breath. The silence was heavier than the ink pooling at my feet. The names on the walls didn’t move. They didn’t fade. They just sat there, black and wet, watching me. Mirabel. And the others. The ones I forgot. The ones I walked away from. The ones I promised to protect and didn’t. The hallway started to change. Not all at once. Not like a door slamming shut or a light flickering out. It unraveled. The cracked linoleum peeled back like old bandages. The yellow hospital glow dimmed, replaced by the sterile white of surgical lamps. The walls didn’t crack. They folded. Metal slid over plaster. Tile replaced paint. The air didn’t thin. It sharpened. Like antiseptic. Like gloves snapping onto wrists. Like the moment before the first incision. I turned. The door was there. Plain. Unmarked except for the words carved into the steel frame. BREATH #5: FIRST CUT. I didn’t hesitate. I walked toward it. Not because I was brave. Not because I had a plan. I walked because there was nowhere else to go. The boy was gone. The scalpel was in my hand. The names were on the floor. And Mirabel was silent. That silence was worse than any accusation. Worse than any scream. It was the sound of someone who had stopped waiting for me to do the right thing. The door didn’t open when I reached for it. It didn’t need to. It dissolved. Not into light. Not into shadow. Into absence. One moment it was there. The next, it wasn’t. Just an opening. A threshold. A choice. I stepped through. The room on the other side wasn’t a memory. It wasn’t a recreation. It was something else. Something raw. Something waiting. The walls were steel. The floor was steel. The ceiling hummed with unseen machinery. No beds. No chairs. No tables. Just space. Empty. Cold. Ready. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I knew what was behind me. The hallway. The ink. The names. The boy. The promise I broke. The hand I let go of. The silence I didn’t break. I looked ahead. There was nothing there. No Mirabel. No orderlies. No rabbit. No six-year-old girl clutching fabric and trust. Just the room. And me. And the scalpel. I tightened my grip. The air didn’t move. The lights didn’t flicker. The machines didn’t beep. Nothing happened. And that was the worst part. Because nothing meant I had to decide what came next. No voice. No question. No countdown. Just me. And the blade. And the memory of what I should have done. I took a step forward. Then another. The floor didn’t echo. It absorbed sound. Like it was designed to swallow everything I said. Everything I screamed. Everything I begged for. I stopped in the center of the room. I turned in a slow circle. Nothing. No exits. No clues. No prompts. Just steel. And silence. And the weight of the scalpel in my hand. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Cut myself? Cut the air? Cut the walls? Cut the memory? Cut the guilt? Cut the silence? I didn’t know. I just knew I had to do something. I raised the scalpel. Not to my chest. Not to my wrist. Not to anything on me. I raised it like I was holding it over an operating table. Like I was about to make the first incision. Like I was the surgeon again. The one who knew what he was doing. The one who didn’t hesitate. The one who didn’t look away. The room didn’t react. I lowered the blade. I turned again. Slower this time. Looking for something. Anything. A mark. A seam. A button. A word. A sign. There was nothing. Just smooth, unbroken steel. Like the room was waiting for me to make the first move. Like it was testing me. Like it wanted to see if I would do it again. If I would cut. If I would run. If I would break. I stopped. I closed my eyes. I didn’t see the hallway. I didn’t see the boy. I didn’t see the orderlies. I saw her. Mirabel. Six years old. Pigtails uneven. Rabbit in hand. Eyes wide. Trusting. Silent. Struggling. Letting go. I opened my eyes. The scalpel was still in my hand. I took a breath. Then another. The room didn’t change. I took another step. Then another. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I just knew I couldn’t stand still. I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t let the silence win. I couldn’t let the memory win. I couldn’t let the guilt win. I walked until I reached the far wall. I pressed my palm against it. Cold. Solid. Unyielding. I dragged my fingers down the steel. Nothing. No hidden panels. No switches. No words. No names. Just smooth, unbroken surface. I turned. The center of the room was empty. The door I came through was gone. Just steel where it had been. No way back. No way out. Just me. And the scalpel. And the silence. I walked to the opposite wall. Same thing. I walked to the left wall. Same thing. I walked to the right wall. Same thing. I stopped in the center again. I looked down at the scalpel. I turned it in my hand. Watched the light catch the edge. Watched the way it didn’t reflect anything. Like it was absorbing the light instead of throwing it back. Like it was hungry. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what the room wanted. I didn’t know what Mirabel wanted. I didn’t know what the boy wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted. I just knew I had to do something. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t lower it. I held it out in front of me. Like an offering. Like a threat. Like a question. The room didn’t answer. I took a step forward. Then another. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know what I was walking toward. I just knew I had to keep moving. I had to keep the blade raised. I had to keep breathing. I had to keep choosing. I walked until I reached the center again. I stopped. I turned in a slow circle. Nothing. I lowered the scalpel. I looked at my hand. At the way my fingers curled around the handle. At the way my knuckles whitened when I gripped it too tight. At the way my thumb rested against the flat of the blade. Like it remembered. Like it knew. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what the next breath would bring. I didn’t know what the next step would reveal. I didn’t know what the next cut would cost. I just knew I had to make it. I raised the scalpel again. I took a breath. Then another. The room didn’t change. The silence didn’t break. The steel didn’t move. I took another step. Then another. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I just knew I had to keep walking. I had to keep holding the blade. I had to keep breathing. I had to keep choosing. I walked until the room started to shift. Not the walls. Not the floor. Not the ceiling. The air. It thickened. Not with heat. Not with moisture. With presence. Like something was watching. Like something was waiting. Like something was about to speak. I stopped. I didn’t turn. I didn’t lower the scalpel. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The air didn’t move. The silence didn’t break. The steel didn’t change. But something was different. I could feel it. Not in my chest. Not in my throat. Not in my hands. In my bones. Like the room was holding its breath. Like the walls were leaning in. Like the ceiling was lowering. Like the floor was rising. Like everything was waiting for me to make the next move. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The air shifted again. Not a sound. Not a whisper. Not a voice. A presence. Closer now. Behind me. I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to. I knew who it was. I knew what it wanted. I knew what it would say. I tightened my grip on the scalpel. I took a breath. Then another. The presence didn’t move. It didn’t speak. It just waited. Like it always had. Like it always would. I didn’t turn. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The presence shifted. Closer. Right behind me. I could feel it. Not on my skin. Not in my ears. In my spine. In my ribs. In my throat. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The presence didn’t speak. It didn’t need to. I knew what it would say. I knew what it had always said. I knew what it would say now. I took a breath. Then another. I didn’t turn. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The presence leaned in. Closer. Close enough to touch. Close enough to whisper. Close enough to break. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The presence didn’t speak. It didn’t need to. I knew. I always knew. I always knew what it would say. I always knew what it wanted. I always knew what I had to do. I took a breath. Then another. I didn’t turn. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The presence didn’t move. It didn’t speak. It just waited. Like it always had. Like it always would. I took a breath. Then another. I didn’t turn. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The presence shifted. One last time. Right against my ear. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The presence didn’t speak. It didn’t need to. I knew. I always knew. I always knew what it would say. I always knew what it wanted. I always knew what I had to do. I took a breath. Then another. I didn’t turn. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The presence didn’t move. It didn’t speak. It just waited. Like it always had. Like it always would. I took a breath. Then another. I didn’t turn. I didn’t speak. I didn’t lower the blade. I just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Listening. The presence leaned in. One last time. Right against my ear. And whispered. “This time, don’t let go.”