The seconds crawled by. I kept staring at the door, as if sheer will could make it open—or make the silence speak.
But nothing happened.
The footsteps didn't return. No shadows moved under the door. No voice called out. Whoever had been there… was either gone or waiting.
I didn't know which unsettled me more.
I lay back slowly, my muscles taut, the sterile mattress beneath me cold and unfamiliar. My eyes stayed trained on that door, half-hoping it would open, half-dreading what might be on the other side if it did.
And then—
The handle turned.
I flinched.
It was subtle, barely a click. But I heard it. Felt it.
The sound of the mechanism shifting landed in my gut like a stone dropped into water. I sat up slowly, eyes locked on the metal knob. It turned halfway, then stilled.
No one entered.
I waited.
Still nothing.
The hairs on my arms rose. A shiver slid down my spine. Not from the cold. This was something else—something primal. The way animals pause when the wind changes direction.
"Hello?" I tried.
My voice came out small. Useless.
There was no reply.
The door stayed shut. The handle unmoving now, as if the earlier motion had been a mistake. Or a warning.
Eventually, I lay back down, but sleep didn't come.
Not right away.
I drifted in and out of restless thoughts—half-memories, half-fears. Jason's voice haunted the corners of my mind, not loud but persistent. "Then we start with memories," he'd said. As if naming the pain made it easier to carry.
He didn't understand. Not really.
You don't carry this kind of pain. It carries you.
I must've dozed off, because when I opened my eyes, the room was dimmer. The harsh lights above had softened to a low hum, casting long shadows that curled along the corners.
The door was still closed.
The notebook lay untouched.
But the stillness in the air had shifted again.
This time, it wasn't heavy. It was hollow.
Emptier than before.
I sat up, slow and deliberate, ignoring the tight pull in my side. Pain licked up my ribs like flame to dry paper, but I welcomed it. It made me feel real.
Alive.
Sliding my legs off the bed, I planted my feet on the cool floor. The cold bled into my skin, grounding me more than anything else had since the doctor left.
I stood, pausing for a breath that didn't come easy. Then I stepped forward.
One step.
Two.
Three.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the door. I hesitated—not because I was afraid of what was behind it, but because I wasn't sure what version of myself would open it.
Then, slowly, I turned the knob.
The door creaked open—