Chapter 67: The Scalpel in Her Hand, Again I stood there. Cold steel under my shoes. The whisper still in my ears. Not gone. Not fading. Not a trick of the air. It was inside me now. A command. A plea. A warning. “This time, don’t let go.” I didn’t know if it came from her. Or from me. I didn’t care. It was there. And so was she. Mirabel. Not a ghost. Not a memory. Not a trick of the light or the machine. She was real. Solid. Breathing. Standing right in front of me. Close enough that if I moved, I’d brush against her. Her eyes locked on mine. No anger. No pity. No sadness. Just waiting. Like she had been here since the first breath. Like she would be here until the last. Her hand lifted. Slow. Steady. Palm up. Empty. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The gesture was clear. The scalpel. Give it to her. I looked down at my own hand. The blade was still there. Cold. Heavy. Familiar. The same one I’d held over tables, over skin, over consent forms I never read. The same one I’d pressed to my own chest, my own temple, my own guilt. The same one I’d used to cut open folders, cut through lies, cut into memories I didn’t want to face. I didn’t want to let it go. Not because I needed it. Not because I thought it could save me. But because letting go felt like surrendering the last thing that made me real. The last thing that proved I had done something. Anything. Even if it was wrong. Even if it was cruel. Even if it was the reason she was standing here now, waiting for me to hand her the weapon I used to erase her. I tightened my grip. Just for a second. Just to feel the metal bite into my palm. Just to remind myself that I was still holding on. Then I loosened my fingers. One by one. The scalpel didn’t fall. It slid. From my grip to hers. Smooth. Quiet. Like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. Her fingers closed around the handle. Not like she was taking it. Like she was receiving it. Like this was the moment she had been waiting for. Not to punish me. Not to kill me. Not to forgive me. To begin. The floor cracked. Not with a sound. Not with a shudder. Just a clean, sharp split right beneath our feet. Steel peeled back like paper. Not rusted. Not broken. Designed to open. Like it had been waiting too. A staircase. Descending. Narrow. Steep. Lit by monitors embedded in the walls. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Each one flickering. Each one showing a moment. A face. A failure. Mine. I didn’t look at them. Not yet. I looked at her. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Her eyes were on the stairs. On the descent. On what waited below. The scalpel in her hand began to glow. Not bright. Not blinding. A soft, steady pulse. Blue. Like a heartbeat. Like a warning. Like a guide. She took a step. Not down. Not forward. Just a shift. A signal. A question. Are you coming? I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I stepped onto the first stair. The metal was cold under my shoe. Solid. Real. More real than anything had felt in a long time. I took another step. Then another. The monitors flickered faster now. Faces flashed. Names scrolled. Moments replayed. I caught glimpses. A signature. A turned back. A lowered blade. A closed door. A child’s hand against glass. A rabbit clutched too tight. A promise whispered and broken before the words had even settled. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look away. I just kept walking. Mirabel followed. Silent. Close. The scalpel glowed in her grip. We reached the bottom. No fanfare. No sound. No change in the air. Just another room. Or maybe the same room, reshaped. The walls were gone. In their place, corridors. Dozens of them. Maybe more. Each one labeled. Each one marked with a number. A breath number. BREATH #1: FIRST BREATH. BREATH #2: FIRST LAUGH. BREATH #3: FIRST FIGHT. BREATH #4: FIRST PROMISE BROKEN. BREATH #5: FIRST CUT. And then, further down, almost hidden behind the others. BREATH #6: FIRST REGRET. She stopped walking. I stopped too. She turned to face me. Still holding the scalpel. Still glowing. Still silent. She didn’t hand it back. She didn’t point. She didn’t speak. She just looked at me. Like she was waiting for me to choose. I looked at the corridors. Each one a doorway. Each one a memory. Each one a wound. Each one a truth I buried. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t weigh them. I didn’t try to guess which one would hurt less. I didn’t try to find the easiest path. I didn’t try to run. I just looked at the one that called to me. BREATH #6: FIRST REGRET. I stepped toward it. Mirabel didn’t move. She didn’t follow. She didn’t stop me. She just watched. Like she knew this was coming. Like she knew I would choose this one. I reached the threshold. The corridor was dark. Not pitch black. Not empty. Just dim. Like the light was holding its breath. Like it was waiting for me to step inside before it decided whether to show me anything at all. I took another step. The air didn’t change. The floor didn’t shift. The walls didn’t close in. Nothing happened. Not yet. I looked back. Mirabel was still there. Still holding the scalpel. Still watching. Her face unreadable. Her eyes steady. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. I turned back to the corridor. I took another step. Then another. The darkness didn’t swallow me. It didn’t fight me. It didn’t try to scare me. It just let me in. Like it had been waiting. Like it knew I would come. I kept walking. The corridor stretched ahead. No doors. No turns. No markers. Just walls. Just floor. Just ceiling. Just me. I didn’t know what I was walking toward. I didn’t know what I would find. I didn’t know if I would survive it. I didn’t care. I kept walking. The air didn’t thin. My breath didn’t shorten. The counter didn’t appear. No voice spoke. No machine whirred. No memory surfaced. Not yet. I just walked. One foot in front of the other. One breath at a time. The corridor didn’t end. It didn’t widen. It didn’t narrow. It didn’t change. It just kept going. Like it was testing me. Like it was waiting to see how far I would go before I turned back. I didn’t turn back. I didn’t slow down. I didn’t stop. I walked until my legs ached. I walked until my mind went quiet. I walked until the only thing left was the sound of my own footsteps. And then, finally, something changed. A light. Faint. Far ahead. Not bright. Not welcoming. Just there. Like a single candle in a long hallway. Like a signal. Like a warning. I walked toward it. The light didn’t grow brighter. It didn’t move. It didn’t flicker. It just stayed where it was. Waiting for me to reach it. I kept walking. The corridor didn’t end. The light didn’t get closer. It just stayed the same distance away. Like it was moving with me. Like it was leading me somewhere. Or keeping me from getting there. I didn’t stop. I didn’t question it. I just kept walking. The light didn’t change. The corridor didn’t change. I didn’t change. I just walked. One foot in front of the other. One breath at a time. Until finally, the light stopped moving. It stayed still. I kept walking. The corridor narrowed. The walls closed in. The ceiling lowered. The floor tilted. I didn’t stop. I didn’t slow down. I didn’t look back. I just kept walking. Toward the light. Toward the memory. Toward the regret. Toward whatever waited for me at the end. The light grew brighter. Not blinding. Not warm. Just clearer. Sharper. More defined. I could see shapes now. Not people. Not objects. Just outlines. Shadows. Silhouettes. Moving. Shifting. Flickering. Like memories trying to form. Like ghosts trying to speak. I kept walking. The corridor ended. Not with a door. Not with a wall. Not with a drop or a rise or a turn. It just ended. And in front of me, a room. Small. Square. Empty. Except for one thing. A chair. And in the chair, a child. Small. Still. Facing away from me. Clutching a stuffed rabbit. Wearing a blue ribbon. I stopped walking. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t breathe. The child didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. I stood there. Staring. Waiting. Knowing. This was it. This was the regret. This was the moment. This was the breath. This was the beginning of the end. I took a step forward. The child didn’t move. I took another step. Still nothing. I reached out. My hand hovered over the child’s shoulder. I didn’t touch. I didn’t speak. I didn’t breathe. I just stood there. Waiting. For something. For anything. For her to turn. For her to speak. For her to scream. For her to forgive me. For her to hate me. For her to be real. For her to be gone. I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know what I expected. I just stood there. Hand outstretched. Breath held. Heart pounding. Mind screaming. Body frozen. The child didn’t move. The room didn’t change. The light didn’t shift. The silence didn’t break. I took another step. Closer. Closer. Closer. Until I was right behind her. Until I could see the ribbon in her hair. Until I could see the frayed edge of the rabbit’s ear. Until I could see the small, trembling fingers clutching it. I reached out again. This time, I touched her. Just a brush. Just a whisper. Just the lightest graze of my fingertips against her shoulder. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. I pulled my hand back. I stepped back. I looked around. The room was still empty. The corridor was still gone. The light was still there. The child was still there. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to feel. I just stood there. Staring. Waiting. Knowing. This was it. This was the regret. This was the moment. This was the breath. This was the beginning of the end. I took a breath. The counter didn’t appear. The voice didn’t speak. The machine didn’t whir. The memory didn’t flood. The child didn’t move. I took another breath. Still nothing. I took another. And another. And another. Until finally, something changed. The child moved. Just a twitch. Just a shift. Just a sigh. And then, slowly, she turned. And looked at me. With eyes I knew. With a face I remembered. With a voice I had spent years trying to forget. She opened her mouth. And whispered one word. “Elias.” I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t breathe. I just stood there. Staring. Waiting. Knowing. This was it. This was the regret. This was the moment. This was the breath. This was the beginning of the end. She reached out. Her small hand trembling. Her fingers brushing against mine. Her voice barely audible. “Don’t let go.” I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t breathe. I just stood there. Staring. Waiting. Knowing. This was it. This was the regret. This was the moment. This was the breath. This was the beginning of the end. I took her hand. And held on. Tight. And didn’t let go.