The signature was mine.
Same strokes.
Same hurried loops.
But I never wrote it.
Not that time.
Not in that context.
Not on that version of the lease.
It read:
Tenant Name: Elias CrossContract Type: Self-Replication TierDuration: Recursive (Loop-Enabled)Witnessed by: Elias Cross
My hand trembled as I held it.
Two signatures.
Me.And... me.
One at the top, one at the bottom.
Signed as tenant.
Signed as witness.
I whispered, "What is this?"
The mirror didn't answer this time.
But the walls shivered.
As if they were breathing.
On the kitchen counter, the scroll dissolved into ash.
In its place: a folder.
Labeled:
"Final Audit: Subject Cross, Elias (Iteration: Prime)"
I opened it.
Inside: documents.
Footage.
Transcripts.
All with my face.
But the actions? Not mine.
One showed me—no, him—smiling as he walked into Room 0B for the first time.
He wasn't scared.
He was confident.
Another showed him standing in front of the building, shaking hands with a woman in red gloves.
She handed him the contract.
He asked only one question:
"Will it remember for me?"
She smiled:
"It will become you."
Then he signed.
Voluntarily.
With joy.
With intent.
I dropped the folder.
The lights dimmed.
A new sound echoed from the closet.
Like a record skipping.
Then… footsteps.
From inside the closet.
I stepped forward.
Opened it.
And there he stood.
Me.
Wearing the same clothes I wore when I first moved in.
Holding a mug that said "Home At Last."
He looked up and smiled.
"Took you long enough."
I didn't speak.
I couldn't.
My throat dried up as I stared at myself.
This version of me… he looked older.
Not in years.
But in cycles.
In memories carried too long.
"You're the fresh one," he said, sipping the mug. "They always make one. A clean slate. But it doesn't stay clean for long."
"What is this place?" I finally asked.
He gestured around the apartment.
"It's memory.It's regret.It's you, trying to control the past by binding it."
I shook my head.
"This isn't possible. None of this is real."
"Reality bends for those who can't let go.""You didn't come here to rent. You came here to remain."
He stepped out of the closet.
Walked past me.
Stopped at the mirror.
Tapped it.
His reflection didn't follow his movements.
Instead, the reflection looked at me.
Not him.
Me.
Then it nodded.
And wrote a word on the glass:
"Choose."
He turned toward me.
"You made a deal—so you wouldn't have to carry your grief."
"Grief for what?" I asked.
He raised an eyebrow.
"You still don't remember."
He clapped his hands.
The lights cut.
In their place: projectors.
Images on every wall.
Pictures of people.
Mom. Dad. Brother. Friends.
All smiling.
All happy.
Then gone.
Then names.
Then death certificates.
All real.
All verified.
All mine.
I stumbled back.
My knees gave out.
I fell.
He knelt beside me.
"You lost them. Everyone. In a single accident.""You couldn't bear it. So you came here. This building offered you what no therapist could: erasure."
He looked down at me, almost tender.
"But it was never erasure. It was containment.Memory doesn't die here—it multiplies."
I tried to breathe.
Tried to deny it.
But I could see it now.
The lease.
The loop.
The strange symbols.
It was a contract to compartmentalize grief.
And every time I "forgot," I created another version of myself to remember in my place.
He stood.
Walked to the front door.
Touched the knob.
Then looked back.
"I'm not going to stay. It's your turn now."
"Wait—where will you go?"
He smiled.
"Where forgotten versions go.Into the building.Into the walls."
Then he opened the door.
And stepped into nothingness.
A void.
The building swallowed him.
The door closed.
Locked.
The knob melted into the wall.
There was no longer a way out.
On the floor, another scroll appeared.
Different this time.
Shorter.
Simpler.
One line:
"You may choose to leave.But you must carry everything.Or remain, and forget once more."
There were two buttons:
"LEAVE"
"REMAIN"
No other options.
No third way.
No trick.
This was it.
I stood there.
Staring.
Shaking.
Realizing… this was the moment every version of me had run from.
And now, the building was done waiting.