They said I had visitors today.
They told me it was "family."
I don't have family.
Not anymore.
Not since that night.
But I played along.
I sat on the bed, hands folded.
The nurse opened the door, and two people walked in.
---
They looked… close.
A woman and a man.
Mid-30s.
Normal.
Too normal.
They smiled politely, like people who hadn't slept in years.
---
> "Hi, Arjun," the man said.
> "We're… here to talk. You remember us, don't you?"
I didn't reply.
I watched their reflections in the one-way mirror behind them.
And I saw three people standing there.
But only two in the room.
---
The woman sat on the edge of my bed.
Her perfume smelled like wet roses and tape adhesive.
Too familiar.
Wrong.
> "Do you remember the tapes?" she asked gently.
> "You were holding the camera, weren't you?"
My throat tightened.
I hadn't said a word yet today.
Not aloud.
The last time I did, the lights bled.
---
> "Why are you here?" I whispered.
She smiled wider.
Teeth too even.
Too white.
> "Because the footage is changing."
> "It's rewriting itself."
---
I flinched.
She opened her bag. Pulled out a small portable TV.
Old.
Knob-style. Dusty.
She turned it on.
No antenna.
No cables.
Just the tape already playing inside.
---
I leaned closer.
Static gave way to picture.
Me.
Room 63.
But not now.
Younger.
More confused.
I was watching the footage within the footage.
> Footage within footage within footage.
A copy of a memory remembering itself.
---
In the video, I stood in the same room—holding a mirror.
But my reflection was not my face.
It was Nisha.
Her eyes hollowed. Lips stitched with dark thread.
> "You let me in," she said.
Then the camera fell.
And the feed glitched.
---
When the image returned, something was different.
I wasn't there anymore.
The video kept playing, but the figure sitting on the bed wasn't me.
It was Dev.
---
I stood.
> "What is this? What are you showing me?"
The man finally spoke.
> "The playback isn't passive, Arjun."
> "The tape is feeding. Learning."
> "And now it's editing."
> "It's replacing."
---
The woman nodded, eyes dark now. Empty.
> "When you filmed that night… the camera didn't just record."
> "It mirrored."
> "It made versions of each of you."
> "And when someone watches the tape... they become the next draft."
---
The room tilted.
The bed elongated.
The corners of the ceiling stretched upward—too far, too fast.
The walls hummed.
The one-way mirror cracked.
---
I backed away.
> "You're not real," I hissed.
> "You're not family. You're not even people."
The woman tilted her head slowly.
> "We're what was edited out."
> "The scenes you forgot."
> "The voices between frames."
She stood.
Took my hand.
It felt like magnetic tape.
Warm. Fragile. Recorded.
---
She placed something cold in my palm.
A tape recorder.
One of the old ones from Greenhill.
I looked down.
It was already playing.
But no sound came out.
Only words scrolled across the display:
> "HE NEVER STOPPED RECORDING."
---
Suddenly, the light flickered.
The nurse outside the door screamed.
A crash. Then silence.
I ran to the door—still locked.
Through the window, I saw her convulsing in the hallway.
Something was pressing against her chest.
Not a person.
A reflection.
Of her.
But smiling.
---
I turned back to the visitors.
Gone.
Only the TV remained—still playing.
Now it showed the outside of the hospital.
Tonight.
Live.
Someone holding a camera. Walking down the hall.
Toward Room 63.
Toward me.
---
I unplugged the TV.
Didn't matter.
The image stayed.
The camera moved closer.
Whoever held it was humming now.
A lullaby in reverse.
I knew it.
My mother's.
---
> "Sleep beneath the bark, my blood
Where roots will keep you fed...
Ashes in your open eyes,
And flame inside your head…"
---
I backed into the corner.
Pressed my hands to my ears.
But I could still see it.
The red light blinking on the lens.
The person holding it—
Me.
Or something wearing me.
Smiling.
Mouth full of ash.
Eyes like old tape film set on fire.
---
The door handle turned.
My breath froze.
No keys. No code.
Just intent.
The door opened.
I was staring into my own face.
But newer.
Edited.
Glitchless.
---
He raised the camera.
Whispered:
> "You were just the first version."
> "I'm the cut that survives."