Chapter 4

“The most terrifying thing is not to forget. The most terrifying thing is to remember the wrong thing.”

I was falling — not downward, but inward. As if the entire space beneath me had dissolved. The funnel wasn’t pulling my body; it was pulling what was inside me. My thoughts, my memory, my fear.

When I could breathe again, I realized I was standing. Dry. Dressed in regular clothes—not my swimsuit. No water, no cold.

Before me was a school corridor. Ours. With the gym, the locker rooms, the speckled linoleum. The light in the window was evening light — golden.

Only it was too golden. As if someone had cranked up the saturation.

A melody played from the speakers. Something familiar, yet distorted. As if the notes were being played backward.

I walked forward. The doors were labeled:

Room 101: You.

Room 102: How it was.

Room 103: How it could have been.

Room 104: How they remember it.

I chose 101.

Inside was a room full of mirrors. But in each one, there was a different version of me.

In one — terrified, in a wet suit, tears on my face.

In another — angry, with blood on my hands.

In a third — me, but in the coach’s uniform. Holding a whistle, with a harsh gaze.

And in the last one — emptiness.

I stepped toward it — and found myself inside a memory.

Thomas. Laughing. We are sitting on the edge of the pool, our feet in the water. He says:

“You know, you’re too proper. Even in hell, you’ll stick to the schedule.”

And I laugh.

Then — a snap. The water is replaced by fire. Thomas is drowning, calling out for me.

I stand on the edge and do not move.

My hands are tied. No — it’s not a rope. It’s my own hair, tangled around my wrists.

“You have already chosen,” a voice whispers. “Only now, you are choosing what to remember.”

I try to scream. I can’t. My chest is constricted. As if I am back in the bowl, underwater. Except there is no air anywhere. Not even inside my head.

I thrash my way out — and wake up. No, I come to.

On the floor. Water again. Ankle-deep. A concrete room, empty. Only an inscription on the wall:

“THIS ROOM NEVER EXISTED.”

I don’t know what is real.

I don’t know what I chose.

Behind me is a door. Ahead of me is another. I walk. I have no choice. Or perhaps there was one — and I’ve already made it.

But as I pass a mirror on the wall — I see no reflection.