Chapter 10: The Water Remembers Nothing I moved toward the crib. The flashlight stayed fixed on it. I didn’t want to look away. I didn’t want to lose sight of the shape curled up inside. Small. Still. Breathing too slow. I didn’t know if it was alive. I didn’t know if it was real. I didn’t know if I was supposed to save it or leave it. All I knew was that I was waist-deep in water that didn’t move unless I did, and the counter above me — somewhere, invisible now — still read 196. I reached the crib. It didn’t sink. It didn’t rock. It just sat there, waiting. Like everything else in this place. Like the shoe. Like the music box. Like the syringe. Like the questions. Like the voice that wasn’t mine but sounded like it. Like the woman in the photos I didn’t remember taking. I bent down. The water pressed against my ribs. It didn’t push. It didn’t pull. It just held me in place, like it was testing whether I meant it. Whether I was sure. Whether I was ready to touch what was inside. I lifted the edge of the blanket. It was damp. Heavy. Cold. I didn’t pull it back all the way. I didn’t want to see the face. I didn’t want to know if it was someone I knew. I didn’t want to know if it was someone I hurt. Under the blanket, taped to the mattress, was a syringe. Clear glass. Silver cap. Label printed in neat, block letters: FORGIVE. I stared at it. I didn’t reach for it right away. I just looked. I let the word sink in. I let it sit there, heavy like the water, like the shoe, like the locket, like the knife, like the blood. Forgive. Not remember. Not survive. Not escape. Not answer. Not choose. Forgive. The intercom crackled. I didn’t jump. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t turn. I just stood there, one hand on the crib rail, the other hovering over the syringe. The voice came soft. Almost gentle. Almost hers. “Inject her or yourself?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think. I just moved. I grabbed the syringe. I pulled it free from the tape. It came loose with a quiet peel. I held it up. I looked at the label again. I looked at the needle. I looked at the crib. I looked at the child. I didn’t know who it was. I didn’t know if it was real. I didn’t know if it was a trick. I didn’t know if it was a test. I didn’t know if it was a memory. I didn’t know if it was mine. I turned the syringe in my hand. I pressed the cap off with my thumb. The needle gleamed under the flashlight. I didn’t hesitate. I pressed it against my neck. I pushed the plunger. Cold liquid rushed into me. It didn’t burn. It didn’t sting. It didn’t hurt. It just went in. Fast. Clean. Like it belonged there. Like it was meant to be there. Like it had been waiting for me to put it there. The water dropped. Not slowly. Not gently. Not like it was draining. It vanished. All at once. Like someone had flipped a switch. One second I was chest-deep. The next, my feet were on dry floor. Cold tile. Smooth. Clean. No puddles. No ripples. No trace. The crib disappeared. Not sank. Not floated away. Not dissolved. It was just gone. Like it had never been there. Like I had imagined it. Like I had dreamed it. Like it had been a shadow I mistook for something solid. The counter jumped. 206. I didn’t look for it. I didn’t search the walls. I didn’t check the ceiling. I didn’t need to. I felt it. I knew it. The number was in my head now. Not above me. Not outside me. Inside me. Part of me. Like my heartbeat. Like my breath. Like my name. My vision broke. Not blurred. Not dimmed. Not faded. It fractured. Like glass hit with a hammer. Like a mirror dropped on stone. Like a window shattered by a fist. Pieces of a hospital room flashed in front of me. White walls. Beeping machines. Tubes snaking from arms. A bed. A body. Thin. Pale. Still. Mine. A woman stood beside it. Dark hair. Red eyes. Wet cheeks. Open mouth. Screaming. Not at me. At someone else. At the doctors. At the nurses. At the ceiling. At the walls. At the world. At nothing. Her hands were fists. Her shoulders were shaking. Her voice was raw. Her face was broken. She knew me. I knew her. I didn’t remember her name. I didn’t remember her face. I didn’t remember her voice. But I knew her. I knew what she was screaming for. I knew why she was screaming. I knew what I had done. I knew what I had let happen. I knew what I had walked away from. I knew what I had buried. I knew what I had forgotten. I knew what I had refused to see. I knew what I had refused to feel. I knew what I had refused to say. I knew. The flashes stopped. The room came back. Dry floor. Empty space. No crib. No child. No water. No syringe. No blanket. No label. No voice. Just me. Standing. Breathing. 206. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think. I just stood there. The hospital room was gone. The woman was gone. The screaming was gone. But the knowing was still there. It didn’t leave. It didn’t fade. It didn’t dissolve. It settled. Like dust after a storm. Like silence after a crash. Like truth after a lie. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want it. I didn’t choose it. But it was mine now. And it wouldn’t let go. The flashlight beam wavered. I didn’t steady it. I let it shake. I let it tremble. I let it show me how unsteady I was. How broken. How guilty. How awake. The counter didn’t move. 206. It waited. It watched. It knew. Just like I did. I lowered the flashlight. I didn’t turn it off. I didn’t drop it. I just let it hang at my side, still on, still shining, still useless. There was nothing left to light. No crib. No child. No water. No answers. Just me. And the knowing. And the number. 206. I took a step. Then another. The floor was cold under my shoes. The air was thin in my lungs. The silence was loud in my head. I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what came next. But I knew one thing. I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t stand still. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t remember. I remembered now. Not all of it. Not the details. Not the dates. Not the names. But the feeling. The weight. The shape of it. The color of it. The sound of her screaming. The look on her face. The way she stood. The way she shook. The way she broke. Because of me. I walked. I didn’t look back. I didn’t look down. I didn’t look for anything. I just walked. Forward. Into the dark. Into the silence. Into the next thing. Whatever it was. Whoever it was. However it ended. I walked. The flashlight beam bounced with each step. It lit nothing. It found nothing. It revealed nothing. But I kept it on. Because if I turned it off, I’d be walking blind. And I couldn’t afford that. Not anymore. Not after this. Not after her. Not after the syringe. Not after the word. Forgive. I didn’t forgive myself. I didn’t expect to. I didn’t think I could. But I knew now. I knew why I was here. I knew why the room changed. I knew why the questions came. I knew why the photos appeared. I knew why the objects dropped. I knew why the counter counted. I knew why the voice spoke. I knew why the water rose. I knew why the crib floated. I knew why the child slept. I knew why the syringe waited. I knew why the label said what it said. I knew. And knowing didn’t help. It didn’t save me. It didn’t stop the counter. It didn’t open a door. It didn’t give me back my breaths. It didn’t erase what I did. It didn’t fix what I broke. It didn’t bring her back. It didn’t make her stop screaming. It didn’t make her stop crying. It didn’t make her stop looking at me like I was a stranger. Like I was a ghost. Like I was the reason everything went wrong. I walked faster. I didn’t run. I didn’t sprint. I didn’t panic. I just moved quicker. Like I was trying to outwalk the memory. Like I was trying to leave it behind. Like I was trying to escape the knowing. It didn’t work. It followed me. It clung to me. It sat on my shoulders. It whispered in my ears. It lived in my chest. It beat with my heart. It breathed with my lungs. It counted with my breaths. 206. I didn’t know how much time I had left. I didn’t know how many steps I could take. I didn’t know what waited ahead. I didn’t know if there was a door. I didn’t know if there was a key. I didn’t know if there was a question. I didn’t know if there was a choice. I didn’t know if there was a way out. I didn’t know if there was a way back. I didn’t know if there was a way to fix it. I didn’t know if there was a way to undo it. I didn’t know if there was a way to make it right. I didn’t know if there was a way to make her stop screaming. I didn’t know if there was a way to make her forgive me. I didn’t know if there was a way to forgive myself. I didn’t know. But I kept walking. Because stopping meant giving up. And giving up meant letting the counter hit zero. And letting the counter hit zero meant letting her scream forever. And I couldn’t do that. Not again. Not this time. Not after I remembered. Not after I knew. I walked. The beam of the flashlight hit a wall. Not the wall I came from. Not the wall behind me. A new wall. Ahead. Solid. Unbroken. No door. No handle. No crack. No seam. Just white paint. Peeling at the edges. Faded in the middle. Stained near the floor. I stopped in front of it. I raised the flashlight. I let the beam crawl up the surface. Slow. Methodical. Searching. For what, I didn’t know. A symbol. A word. A number. A shape. A trigger. A clue. A memory. A lie. A truth. Something. Anything. The beam stopped. Midway up the wall. There was something there. Not painted. Not carved. Not written. Etched. Shallow. Faint. Almost invisible. But there. Three letters. L. E. N. I didn’t need the last one. I knew what it was. I knew who it was. I knew why it was here. I knew why it was waiting. I knew why it was hidden. I knew why it was revealed now. After the syringe. After the water. After the crib. After the child. After the scream. After the knowing. I reached out. I touched the L. My finger traced the curve. Cold. Rough. Real. Not a memory. Not a dream. Not a trick. Real. Like the shoe. Like the locket. Like the knife. Like the blood. Like the syringe. Like the scream. Like her. Lena. I said it out loud. Not a whisper. Not a question. Not a plea. A statement. A fact. A name. A person. A sister. A victim. A witness. A reason. A punishment. A judge. A jury. An executioner. Mine. The wall didn’t move. The letters didn’t glow. The room didn’t shake. The counter didn’t change. 206. But something else did. Behind me. A sound. Not a voice. Not a machine. Not a sob. Not a song. A click. Soft. Metallic. Familiar. I turned. Slow. Careful. Afraid. The flashlight beam swept the room behind me. Empty. Dry. Still. Nothing. Then— A panel. In the floor. Where the water had been. Where the crib had floated. Where the child had slept. Where I had stood. Where I had injected myself. Where I had remembered. Where I had known. The panel slid open. Quiet. Smooth. No warning. No announcement. No voice. Just movement. Just metal. Just space. Just darkness below. I didn’t move toward it. I didn’t step back. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think. I just stood there. Flashlight in hand. Name on my lips. Number in my chest. Knowing in my bones. The panel waited. The darkness waited. The next thing waited. I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t know what it wanted. I didn’t know what it would ask. I didn’t know what it would show. I didn’t know what it would take. I didn’t know what it would give. I didn’t know. But I knew one thing. I had to go down. I had to see. I had to face it. I had to answer. I had to ask. I had to finish. I had to end this. One way or another. Before the counter hit zero. Before she stopped screaming. Before I forgot again. I took a step toward the hole. Then another. The flashlight beam pointed down. Into the dark. Into the next thing. Into the last thing. Into her. Into me. Into the truth. I didn’t look back. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t pray. I didn’t hope. I just moved. Toward the open panel. Toward the ladder. Toward the dark. Toward the end. Toward the beginning. Toward the question I had to ask myself. The answer that would decide everything. The door. Or the zero. I reached the edge. I looked down. The ladder waited. Rungs spaced just right. Just enough to fit a hand. Just enough to fit a foot. Just enough to fit me. I gripped the first rung. Cold. Rough. Real. I pulled myself up. One knee on the edge. The other dangling. I swung my leg down. Found the second rung. Shifted my weight. Let go of the floor. Gripped the ladder with both hands. I climbed down. The air changed as I went. Thicker. Heavier. Colder. It didn’t smell like anything. It didn’t feel like anything. It just pressed against me. Like the walls were breathing in. Like the room was holding me tighter the deeper I went. The counter started again. 206. I didn’t look up. I didn’t look down. I just kept climbing. One rung. Then another. Then another. My arms burned. My legs shook. My breath came harder now. Each one counted. Each one mattered. Each one was a step closer to something I didn’t understand. The ladder ended. My feet hit solid ground. Not water. Not metal. Not tile. Dirt. Soft. Loose. Unstable. I turned around. The ladder rose above me, disappearing into the ceiling. No light came down from the hole. No sound followed me. Just the dark. Just the dirt. Just me. I took a step forward. The ground gave slightly under my weight. I reached into my pocket. My fingers closed around the flashlight. I pulled it out. I clicked it on. The beam cut through the dark. Thin. Sharp. Focused. It didn’t spread. It didn’t scatter. It just went straight ahead. Lighting up what was in front of me. And there it was. A door. Wooden. Old. Warped. With a single word carved into the center. Not a name. Not a number. Not a symbol. A question. One word. One syllable. One letter. Why. I stopped. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think. I just stood there. Flashlight beam steady. Door ahead. Word carved. Question waiting. Counter ticking. 206. I didn’t know what waited behind it. I didn’t know what it would cost. I didn’t know what it would take. I didn’t know what it would give. I didn’t know. But I knew I had to open it. I had to step through. I had to face what was on the other side. I had to ask the question. The final one. The one only I could ask. The one only I could answer. The one that would decide. The door. Or the zero. I took a step toward it. Then another. The beam stayed fixed on the word. Why. I reached for the handle. Cold. Rusted. Unmoving. I gripped it. I turned it. It didn’t budge. I pushed. It didn’t open. I pulled. It didn’t give. I stepped back. I looked at the door. At the word. At the beam. At my hand. At the counter. 206. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what it wanted. I didn’t know what it needed. I didn’t know what it expected. I didn’t know. But I knew one thing. I had to ask. Not out loud. Not to the room. Not to the voice. Not to the counter. To myself. The question. The real one. The only one that mattered. The one that would unlock the door. Or stop the counter. I opened my mouth. I took a breath. I let it out. Slow. Steady. Deliberate. I didn’t speak. Not yet. I just stood there. In front of the door. In the dark. With the beam. With the dirt. With the ladder behind me. With the hole above me. With the number inside me. With the knowing in my chest. With her scream in my ears. With her face in my head. With her name on my lips. Lena. I closed my eyes. I took another breath. I let it out. I opened my mouth again. I whispered. One word. One question. One truth. One chance. One last thing. “Why did I let you die?”