The apartment was quiet again.
Not peaceful. Not empty.
Quiet like a library of locked mouths.
I sat on the edge of the couch, notebook trembling in my lap. Just one page left. One sentence.
> "You made it through. But don't forget who didn't."
Signed:
Ian Foster.
---
That name pulled something in me loose. Like a tooth that had been clinging by a thread.
Ian.
It echoed deeper than Elijah ever had.
Not louder—but truer.
Like a name I hadn't spoken since childhood. Maybe because it hadn't been mine in a long time.
---
I said it aloud, slowly:
> "My name is Ian Foster."
The walls didn't hum.
The mirror didn't ripple.
But the notebook flipped itself shut, like a ritual complete.
---
I stood and went to the hallway mirror. Still whole. Still motionless. But the light above it flickered once, then steadied. When I looked into the glass… my reflection matched me again.
No smile.
No delay.
Just me.
Whoever that was.
---
My phone buzzed.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
> "You woke up. We weren't sure you'd make it."
I typed back:
> "Who is this?"
The reply came instantly.
> "Version 1. Basement."
> "Bring the book."
---
I'd never noticed a basement in this building before.
But as I walked down the stairwell, I passed doors I didn't remember.
3A. 2E. 1F.
Until finally, beneath street level—
A black door.
No number.
No knob.
Just a slit in the wood shaped like a key.
And the key was already in my hand.
I didn't remember picking it up.
But it fit.
Of course it fit.
---
Inside, the walls pulsed with red emergency lights.
A single bulb flickered above a rusted elevator shaft.
Caged.
Waiting.
The doors creaked open for me.
No button panel inside.
Just a slot in the wall that looked… identical to the notebook's spine.
I slid the book in.
The elevator dropped like it knew where to go.
---
When it stopped, the doors opened into a long corridor lined with mirrors.
But these weren't reflections.
They were rooms.
Every mirror held a different version of Apartment 4B.
Some new.
Some decayed.
One was underwater.
Another filled with flickering television static.
One was burning.
---
At the end of the hallway stood a man.
Mid-30s.
Balding. Glasses. Same eyes as mine.
He smiled when he saw me.
> "Ian. You're the last."
> "The last what?"
> "The last original. The final thread."
> "Of what?"
> "The Room's memory."
---
He turned and gestured to the wall behind him.
A list of names etched in steel.
All crossed out except one:
IAN FOSTER.
> "The Room doesn't just forget people," he said.
"It consumes them. Versions. Attempts. Drafts. It keeps what it likes. Discards what it doesn't."
> "You mean... all those people—?"
> "Were you."
---
I staggered back.
Each mirror behind me rippled slightly—sensitive to my presence.
> "We've all tried to escape," he said.
"Some made it halfway. Others rewrote themselves entirely. One even changed her name to escape the recursion. Didn't work."
He touched the burning mirror gently.
> "But you... you remembered the name."
> "And that matters?"
He looked at me solemnly.
> "It's everything."
---
The notebook in the wall slot began to glow.
Pages flipping violently.
Sparks. Ink smoke.
Then it tore itself apart—
Pages lifting like moths, flying into the mirrors.
One by one, the apartments began to disappear.
Versions disintegrating.
The burning room extinguished.
The flooded room drained.
The static apartment blinked to black.
And one by one, the lights in the corridor died.
---
> "What's happening?" I asked.
> "You chose your name. You remembered. That makes you real."
> "And the others?"
> "They weren't."
> "But they were me."
> "And that's the price of becoming the original again."
---
The steel wall clicked.
A hidden panel slid open.
Revealing a door.
Ordinary.
Wooden.
Marked with a brass plate:
"4B"
---
He handed me a key.
Not brass.
Not blank.
But engraved.
> "This time," he said, "if you walk through it, you stay remembered."
> "And if I don't?"
> "You stay here. Versioned. Forgotten. Reflected forever."
---
I stared at the key.
Felt its weight in my palm.
Same as the first day.
Only now… it didn't pull at me.
It waited.
Like it was mine again.
---
Before I turned the knob, I looked back.
> "What about you?"
He smiled softly.
> "I was Version 1. I made the first mistake."
> "What mistake?"
> "I tried to live in someone else's name."
The mirrors behind him cracked—one by one.
He nodded.
> "Time to go home, Ian."
---
I stepped through the door.
Back into Apartment 4B.
Real.
Silent.
Not empty.
But full.
With me.
Only me.
And this time, the silence wasn't listening.
It was resting.
---
The hallway mirror remained.
But now it showed only what was.
Not what was stolen.
Not what was lost.
Just the room.
And a man standing in it.
Holding his name like a shield.