The hallway outside Room 63 is colder than I remember.
Not just temperature—atmosphere.
Like the air's been recorded and played back a hundred times.
Worn thin.
Scratched.
I walk slowly.
The camera in my hand hums softly, even turned off.
Like it's waiting for the next scene.
Like it knows what's coming.
---
The facility is mostly dark.
Only emergency lighting.
Which means the staff is either gone… or hiding.
I pass the nurses' station.
Abandoned.
Half-drunk tea steaming.
A patient log on the floor—pages missing.
I pick it up.
There are only two names left on the sheet.
Arjun Mehta – 3:13 a.m. – Room 63
Nisha Verma – STATUS: REDACTED
---
I haven't heard her name out loud in a long time.
Seeing it there, ink bleeding from old tape glue stains—
It makes it real.
---
I reach the basement access elevator.
Out of order.
But the stairwell still works.
Rust coats the railing.
Like the building has been bleeding through the walls.
Every step I take downward, the air thickens.
And somewhere below, I hear film reels spinning.
---
I reach the sublevel.
Door marked:
> "ARCHIVAL – MEDICAL FOOTAGE / INCIDENT EVIDENCE / STAFF TRAINING"
But another sign has been slapped over it in faded red:
> "DO NOT WATCH. DO NOT ENTER. DO NOT REMEMBER."
---
I push through.
The lights flicker as I enter the long hallway.
On either side: rows of shelves.
Not digital files.
Not USBs.
Tapes.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
All labeled in messy black ink.
> "3:13 – Jonas"
> "3:13 – Clara"
> "3:13 – Dev"
> "3:13 – Nisha (partial)"
---
My fingers shake as I find the one labeled "3:13 – Arjun (loop 7)"
Loop.
Seven.
How many times have I been replayed?
How many times has someone watched me and decided I wasn't good enough to be remembered?
I slide the tape into the old console in the center of the room.
It whirs.
Sparks.
Then plays.
---
It's me.
Again.
But this time… I'm not alone.
Nisha's there.
Standing in a room I don't recognize.
Walls covered in mirrors.
A spiral carved into the floor.
She's crying.
> "Arjun, please… tell me this is the real you."
Onscreen, I nod.
Say nothing.
Just hold the camera steady.
And that's when I know:
That wasn't me.
That was the other one.
---
The screen shakes.
The footage distorts.
And suddenly I'm seeing something new.
Something that wasn't recorded.
A room deeper than the archive.
A vault.
With a door made of glass, covered in black wire.
And behind it:
Nisha.
Trapped. Frozen mid-scream.
Mouth sealed with the same thread I saw in the mirror.
Hands pressed to the glass.
---
The screen blinks.
Coordinates flash briefly in the bottom right corner.
Sublevel 3.
Access Code: 3:13
---
The feed ends.
The tape catches fire.
Literally.
Sparks explode from the VCR.
Smoke rises.
And from somewhere in the archive, a voice whispers:
> "No more copies."
> "No more cuts."
> "Only truth."
---
I grab the camera and run toward Sublevel 3.
Down the narrow metal stairs.
Deeper than I've ever been.
The walls down here are not hospital walls anymore.
They're carved stone.
Roots growing through them like veins.
And on each wall—recordings etched in static.
Not visuals.
Feelings.
Fear. Guilt. Silence. Regret.
All recorded without a lens.
---
At the bottom, I find it.
A vault door.
Glass. Woven with wire and ash.
Just like the footage showed.
And inside—
Her.
Nisha.
Eyes wide.
Breathing slowly.
Alive.
But frozen like she's stuck between seconds.
---
I press my hand to the glass.
The camera vibrates in my other hand.
Then hums.
Then turns on—by itself.
The red light blinks.
And the door slides open.
---
She falls forward into my arms.
Cold.
Heavy.
But real.
Her lips tremble.
She tries to speak.
But the thread is still there.
Invisible.
I look around.
Etched into the floor: a spiral.
Etched into the wall:
> "TO UNBIND HER, YOU MUST FORGET YOUR NAME."
---
She grabs my hand.
Places it over her heart.
It's beating.
Barely.
And in my head—I hear it again.
That voice.
My voice, but from another reel.
> "If you remember who you are… she disappears."
> "If you forget… she returns."
---
I stare at her face.
The girl I left behind.
The one they replaced.
And I say it out loud:
> "I don't remember."
The spiral on the wall glows.
And the thread in her mouth—
Snaps.
---
She gasps.
Collapses forward, sobbing.
And says my name:
> "Arjun…"
---
But I don't recognize it anymore.