Chapter 13

“Memory is a mirror. But it isn’t yours. It belongs to the one who looked into you.”

After the flash of light, after the tremor in the floor, after the moment Thomas squeezed my hand, the room shifted — again. But this time, it wasn’t new.

It was familiar.

“Wait…” I whispered.

The walls of this room were lined with old wooden panels, and it smelled of dust, plaster, and something ancient that should have been burned long ago. It smelled of school. The very same one where I used to swim, where everything had once begun.

“Is this… the locker room?” Thomas asked.

But he already knew the answer.

Yes. It was our locker room. Except it had no windows. And it was infinitely long. The benches stretched on and on; the rusty lockers were endless. And on each one hung nameplates. One of the names read: “JOE WHEELER”.

“Joe?” I flinched. “Did he… die? Is this his…”

A rustle. Someone was walking. But when we spun around — there was no one. Only a door, slightly ajar, leading into another hall.

We stepped inside.

And found ourselves inside someone else’s memory.

On the floor was a pool. A small, school pool. In the water was a boy. Crying. His father was holding him — pressing down hard, with a cold look in his eyes. His voice, heavy and sharp, rang through the room like a whip:

“Weakling. You will not be a weakling. You swim — or you are nobody.”

It was Joe. A young Joe. A mirage — yet entirely real.

“I don’t want to…” he wheezed, choking on the water.

“SWIM!” the voice roared. And the father’s face looked harsh, as if carved from blades.

I stepped back.

“Are we… inside his memory?”

Thomas nodded. His face went pale.

“Or inside what he left behind here.”

The mirage froze. Then it burned away, like scorched film.

A new name materialized on the wall: “LIA SONG”.

We walked further. The room changed again.

Now, a corridor. A girl sat by a door. In her hands, she held a black sleep mask. Silence, except for her mother shouting at someone over the phone in the next room. The girl whispered:

“I know how to be a shadow. I am not here. If I’m not here, I’m not in the way.”

The voice was barely audible. But it cut deeper than any scream.

Thomas clenched his fists. I stared at the floor — a knot forming in my throat.

“This is everything we… didn’t want to see.”

“Or forgot. On purpose.”

“The labyrinth isn’t made of walls. It’s them. It’s us. Everything we hid away.”

On the next wall, a name appeared: THOMAS BREEN.

The room collapsed. Everything went dark. But out of the gloom emerged a new scene: a child’s bedroom. A young Thomas, playing alone. Dolls — without faces. A television set that was always blaring too loud. No parents. Only emptiness and the glow of the screen.

He stood beside his younger self — and said nothing.

I took his hand.

“Thomas. That isn’t you. Not anymore.”

He exhaled. The room dissolved. White light returned. Only now—it was cold. Looking less like a lamp and more like a blade.

An inscription appeared on the floor:

“To pass further, you must remember yourself before the fear.”

“What does that mean?” he asked.

I closed my eyes.

And suddenly, before me was my own room. Sports medals, meticulously hung up. The coach’s voice, blaring from a speaker:

“You are a result. You are not a person. Do not feel. Do not think. Swim. Just swim.”

And — me. A girl. Eleven years old. Standing in front of the mirror, fighting back tears. Because crying — was forbidden. Because I was strong. Because otherwise — I was nobody.

I whispered:

“Before the fear… I was myself.”

And at that exact moment, the mirror in the center of the room cracked. Slowly, like ice. And a passage opened up.

But now — there was only one.

A voice spoke:

“One may remember. The other may forget. Who are you?”

I looked at Thomas.

“Let’s go. Together.”

“This could be another deception. They want to divide us.”

I nodded.

“And what if they don’t? What if this isn’t an enemy? What if it’s a diagnosis?”

He smiled — for the first time, truly.

“Then let the diagnosis wait. We aren’t doing this alone. Not anymore.”

We took a step.

The passage accepted us. But behind our backs, the mirror loomed once more.

And looking out from it now was no reflection. It was the other Thomas.

He wasn’t smiling.

He was waiting.