Chapter 8: The Blood Knows I kept walking. The sob didn’t fade. It didn’t grow louder in a way that meant distance shrinking. It grew louder because I was paying attention now. Because I was letting it in. Because I was no longer pretending I didn’t know what it was. Who it belonged to. Why it was here. The shoe stayed in my hand. My thumb stayed pressed against the inside. The dried blood didn’t come off anymore. It had stopped flaking. It had settled into my skin like a stain that refused to wash out. I didn’t try to wipe it. I didn’t want to. It felt like the only real thing I had left. The only proof that something had happened. That someone had been here. That I had been here too. The corridor didn’t change. The walls stayed the same. The ceiling stayed low. The floor stayed concrete. The lights stayed flickering. The air stayed stale. Nothing shifted. Nothing moved. Nothing tried to trick me. It was just me and the sob and the shoe and the breaths ticking down in my head even though I couldn’t see the counter anymore. 197. I counted it without meaning to. It came to me like a reflex. Like blinking. Like swallowing. Like breathing. I reached the end of the corridor. There was no turn. No branching path. No hidden door in the wall. Just a steel door. Thick. Solid. Unmarked except for one thing. A child’s handprint. Small. Delicate. Fingers splayed slightly. Palm pressed flat. It wasn’t painted. It wasn’t etched. It was just there. Like someone had pressed their hand against the metal while it was still wet. Or while they were still bleeding. I stopped in front of it. I looked at it. I didn’t understand it. I lifted my hand. I pressed it against the print. Nothing happened. The door didn’t hum. It didn’t click. It didn’t glow. It didn’t shake. It didn’t care. My hand was too big. Too rough. Too adult. Too wrong. It didn’t fit. It didn’t belong. It didn’t matter. I lowered my hand. I looked at the shoe. I turned it over. The blood inside looked darker now. Almost black. It didn’t smell. It didn’t feel sticky. It just sat there. Quiet. Patient. Waiting. I lifted the shoe. I pressed it against the handprint. The shoe fit perfectly. The heel aligned with the base of the palm. The toe lined up with the fingertips. The curve of the sole matched the curve of the print. It was like it had been made for this. Like this was where it was supposed to go. Like this was why it had been left for me. The door unlocked. Not with a sound. Not with a light. Not with a shudder. Just a soft, mechanical sigh. A release. A surrender. The kind of sound a lock makes when it decides to stop fighting. I pulled the shoe away. I held it in my hand. I pushed the door open. It swung inward without resistance. Without noise. Without warning. Inside was a room. Small. Square. Bare except for three things. A crib. A broken music box. A new intercom. The crib stood in the center. White paint peeling. One side rail missing. Mattress bare. No sheets. No blanket. No pillow. Just wood and dust and silence. The music box sat on the floor beside it. Wooden. Round. Lid cracked down the middle. One corner chipped off. No visible crank. No visible keyhole. Just broken. Just still. The intercom was mounted on the wall above the crib. Small. Black. Unlit. Silent. Waiting. I stepped inside. The door closed behind me. It didn’t slam. It didn’t latch. It just shut. Like it had decided I was where I needed to be. Like it had decided I wasn’t leaving. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t look back. I walked to the crib. I looked inside. Empty. I bent down. I picked up the music box. It was lighter than I expected. Hollow. Brittle. The crack in the lid ran deep. I ran my finger along it. It didn’t move. It didn’t open. It just sat there. Broken. Silent. I set it back down. I stood up. I looked at the intercom. It stayed dark. I waited. Nothing happened. I looked at the crib again. I looked at the music box. I looked at the shoe in my hand. I looked at the blood on my thumb. The intercom crackled. Not loud. Not sudden. Not threatening. Just a soft static. Like someone clearing their throat. Like someone getting ready to speak. Then it spoke. “Whose blood is this?” The voice wasn’t cold. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t hers. It wasn’t the child’s. It was just a voice. Neutral. Calm. Expecting an answer. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think. I didn’t lie. I didn’t try to guess. I just said it. “Mine.” The counter froze. 197. It didn’t drop. It didn’t rise. It didn’t blink. It didn’t move. It just stopped. Like time had stopped. Like breath had stopped. Like everything had stopped except for me and the room and the voice and the blood. The music box started playing. Not loud. Not fast. Not cheerful. Slow. Soft. Broken. The tune was familiar. I didn’t know the name. I didn’t know where I’d heard it. But I knew it. I’d heard it before. A long time ago. In a place that didn’t exist anymore. In a life that wasn’t mine anymore. The lid didn’t open. The mechanism didn’t turn. The gears didn’t spin. It just played. From inside the crack. From inside the break. From inside the silence. It played. And I stood there. Holding the shoe. Looking at the crib. Listening to the music. Breathing. Not counting. Just breathing. The music didn’t stop. The counter didn’t move. The door didn’t open. The voice didn’t speak again. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think. I just stood there. Breathing. Listening. Waiting. The music box kept playing. The tune didn’t change. The tempo didn’t shift. The notes didn’t falter. It just played. Over and over. The same broken melody. The same cracked rhythm. The same silent song. I looked down at the shoe. I looked at the blood on my thumb. I looked at the crib. I looked at the music box. I looked at the intercom. I looked at the door. I looked at the walls. 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