Arnold met her in the waiting room.
She was sitting two chairs away, feet not quite touching the floor, swinging slowly like she had nowhere else to be. A paper cup rested between her hands, steam long gone. She looked younger than him—maybe nineteen or twenty—with tired eyes that tried very hard to look brave.
She noticed him staring and smiled first.
"Hi," she said. "You look lost."
Arnold almost laughed. "I think that's required to be here."
She nodded like that made perfect sense. "Yeah. Same."
They sat in silence for a moment. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust, like something pretending to be clean. The walls hummed quietly, not loud enough to hear unless you paid attention—which Arnold did.
"I'm Lysa," she said suddenly, sticking out her hand. "I think."
He took it. Her grip was warm. Solid. Real.
"Arnold."
"Nice to meet you, Arnold." She hesitated. "Do you know how long we've been waiting?"
He glanced at the wall clock. The hands hadn't moved since he arrived. "I don't think time works right here."
"Oh." She considered that. "That explains a lot."
Lysa talked easily, like someone who hated silence more than fear.
She told him she worked at a convenience store near the south bridge. Night shifts. Boring customers. One regular who always bought the same brand of cigarettes and paid in exact change.
"I noticed something wrong before anyone else," she said casually, stirring the empty cup with a plastic stick. "The bridge lights blinked out for three seconds. Not all of them. Just the ones in the middle."
Arnold stiffened. "And?"
"And nobody else remembered." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I asked my manager. He said they never blinked. Asked my friend. She told me I worry too much."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "But I knew they did. I could still see it when I closed my eyes."
Arnold felt that familiar pressure behind his temples.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I started writing it down," Lysa said. "Just little things. Stuff that felt… smoothed over. Streets that changed names overnight. A bus stop that moved five meters to the left."
She tapped her temple. "So they couldn't take it from here."
Arnold's throat tightened. "Did it help?"
"For a while," she said. "Then I woke up here."
On the other side of reinforced glass, Maizy Harlan read Lysa's file.
Young. Observant. No prior incidents. No escalation behaviors.
"She's not spreading," Jack said. "No online posts. No witnesses."
"She's anchoring," Maizy replied.
Jack frowned. "That's not—"
"She's creating redundancy," Maizy continued calmly. "Multiple memory vectors. Written, mental, emotional. If corrected improperly, the idea persists."
Jack exhaled sharply. "She's a kid."
"So was the city last time," Maizy said. "Proceed with caution."
"Do you think they're going to erase us?" Lysa asked lightly, as if discussing bad weather.
Arnold hesitated. He remembered the receptionist's warning.
Do not explain.
"I don't know," he said honestly.
She studied him. "You're different."
He stiffened. "How?"
"They look at you longer," she said. "Like you're… complicated."
That word hit too close to something he didn't have language for.
Lysa smiled again, softer this time. "If they erase me," she said, "can you do something?"
Arnold's chest tightened. "I—what?"
"Remember me," she said simply.
The hum in the walls deepened.
"I don't want to disappear twice," Lysa continued. "Once from the world. Once from people."
Arnold opened his mouth.
The door hissed open.
The receptionist stood there, expression neutral.
"Lysa Calder," she said. "It's time."
Lysa stood. She smoothed her jacket, then hesitated and hugged Arnold before he could react.
She smelled like cheap soap and night air.
"Don't forget," she whispered.
"I won't," he said—and realized he meant it in a way that felt dangerous.
The correction room was smaller than Daniel's.
Simpler.
Lysa sat in the chair without being asked.
"This won't hurt, right?" she asked.
"No," the receptionist said.
Lysa nodded, satisfied. "Okay."
The pressure came faster this time.
Arnold felt it spike, sharp and wrong, like a sound above hearing. Symbols clawed at the edge of his vision, clearer now—loops, fractures, impossible geometry.
Lysa gasped.
"No," she whispered. "Wait. Something's wrong."
"What do you feel?" the receptionist asked.
"I can still remember," Lysa said, panic blooming. "I can remember everything."
The room shook.
Alarms flared somewhere deep below.
"Stabilize," Maizy ordered over comms.
"It's not working," a technician shouted. "She's reinforcing herself."
Lysa looked at Arnold, eyes wide. "I can see it," she said. "The space where things get fixed. You're standing in it."
Arnold staggered forward. "Lysa—"
The pressure snapped.
Silence fell like a held breath finally released.
Lysa slumped back in the chair.
The room relaxed.
"Success," the technician said cautiously.
Lysa blinked.
"Oh," she said softly. "Am I… waiting for someone?"
Arnold's heart dropped.
She looked at him, smiling politely.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Do I know you?"
Later, Arnold sat alone.
His head throbbed. His hands shook.
On the table beside him lay a folded scrap of paper.
He didn't remember taking it.
He unfolded it.
Three words, written in careful handwriting:
The lights blinked.
Arnold closed his eyes.
And for the first time, he understood the real horror.
Corrections didn't always fail.
Sometimes…
they left witnesses.