Knock.
Salem didn't move.
Knock.
The sound came again.
Not from the door.
Not from the walls.
From inside the machine.
He stared at the dark metal surface.
The words were still there.
NOW LET ME OUT.
Salem tightened his grip around the red toy car.
"Who are you?"
Silence.
He waited.
Nothing.
"That's becoming a really annoying habit."
No answer.
Salem glanced at the toy.
The black glass hidden inside it had disappeared.
He turned the car over.
Nothing.
Just plastic.
Chipped red paint.
One missing wheel.
The scratch across the windshield.
Ordinary.
Almost painfully ordinary.
And somehow that made it worse.
He looked back at the machine.
"You told me to ask my mother."
The machine remained dark.
"You showed me memories."
Nothing.
"You erased her face."
Still nothing.
Salem stepped closer.
"And now you're asking me to let you out?"
He placed his palm against the machine.
Cold.
"Give me one reason."
Knock.
A pause.
Then—
Knock.
Knock.
Salem slowly removed his hand.
"That's not a reason."
The machine suddenly lit up.
A single sentence appeared.
BECAUSE YOU ALREADY DID.
Salem stared at it.
"What?"
The words vanished.
A new sentence appeared.
YOU OPENED THE DOOR BEFORE.
Salem's eyes narrowed.
"When?"
The machine answered immediately.
YOU DON'T REMEMBER.
His stomach dropped.
He stepped backward.
"No."
The machine remained silent.
"No, that's exactly what you said before."
He looked around the chamber.
The concrete walls.
The floor.
The machine.
The darkness.
The toy.
Everything felt familiar.
Too familiar.
Like walking into a room he'd visited in a dream.
"Have I been here before?"
The question escaped him.
Nothing happened.
Salem waited.
Then the machine displayed:
YES.
His breathing slowed.
"How many times?"
The answer appeared.
ENOUGH.
"That's not a number."
YOU STOPPED COUNTING.
Salem laughed quietly.
"Of course I did."
He looked down.
"Because I forgot."
The machine flickered.
BECAUSE YOU CHOSE TO FORGET.
Salem's expression hardened.
"I didn't choose that."
The machine went dark.
Then—
YOU DID.
Salem slammed his fist against the metal.
"I didn't!"
The sound echoed through the chamber.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then something strange happened.
The machine laughed.
Not mechanically.
Not electronically.
A real laugh.
A quiet one.
Almost familiar.
Salem slowly lowered his hand.
"You think that's funny?"
The laughter stopped.
A voice came from inside.
"Yes."
Salem froze.
It wasn't his voice.
Not exactly.
It sounded like someone who had spent too long listening to him.
Someone who knew his rhythm.
His pauses.
His anger.
His humor.
Someone who had learned how Salem spoke.
"Who are you?"
The voice answered:
"I asked you that once."
"When?"
"Before you forgot."
Salem stared at the machine.
"Then tell me."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because you made me promise."
Salem's eyebrows pulled together.
"I made you promise what?"
The voice became quieter.
"Not to tell you."
A cold sensation moved through Salem's body.
"So you're protecting me?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"I'm protecting what you chose."
Salem looked at the red toy car.
"What did I choose?"
The machine didn't answer.
Instead, the floor beneath Salem began glowing.
A circle appeared around his feet.
Then another.
Then another.
Three circles.
Three choices.
Salem stared at them.
He almost laughed.
"You've got to be kidding me."
The voice inside the machine spoke.
"You hate this part."
Salem looked up.
"What part?"
"The choices."
The circles changed.
The first showed the laboratory.
The second showed the bedroom.
The third showed something Salem had never seen.
A white room.
Empty.
No windows.
No doors.
Just a chair.
And someone sitting in it.
Salem stared.
"Who's that?"
The figure didn't move.
The voice answered:
"You."
Salem shook his head.
"No."
"You always say that."
"I've never seen that room."
"You said that last time."
"Stop saying that."
"You said that too."
Salem's jaw tightened.
"Then tell me something I haven't said."
Silence.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then the figure inside the white room lifted its head.
Salem couldn't see its face.
But he heard its voice.
His voice.
"I remember."
Salem stopped breathing.
The three circles vanished.
The white room remained.
The figure stood.
And slowly—
It walked toward him.
Not physically.
The image was only being projected onto the machine.
Yet every step felt real.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Until the figure stopped directly in front of the screen.
Salem stared at himself.
Older.
Not by decades.
Maybe five years.
Maybe ten.
It was difficult to tell.
The face was thinner.
The eyes were darker.
There was a scar running from his left temple toward his cheek.
But the most disturbing thing wasn't the face.
It was what he was holding.
A small red toy car.
Salem looked down at the one in his own hand.
Then back at the screen.
The older version smiled.
"You kept it."
Salem's voice barely came out.
"You gave it to me."
The older Salem shook his head.
"No."
"Then who did?"
"I did."
Salem frowned.
"You just said you didn't."
"I didn't give it to you."
"Then how did you—"
"I gave it to him."
Salem went still.
"To who?"
The older Salem looked directly at him.
"You."
Salem felt the room tilt.
"What?"
The older version raised the toy car.
"You gave this to yourself."
The screen went black.
Salem stood motionless.
The words repeated inside his head.
You gave this to yourself.
A memory appeared.
Not from the bedroom.
Not from childhood.
From somewhere else.
Salem saw himself standing beside the time machine.
Older.
Tired.
Bleeding.
He was holding the toy car.
Someone stood across from him.
A person Salem couldn't see.
The older Salem extended the toy.
"Take it."
The younger Salem reached for it.
"Why?"
"Because one day you'll need to remember."
"What am I supposed to remember?"
The older Salem looked at him.
"That you made the choice."
The memory shattered.
Salem stumbled backward.
The red toy fell from his hand.
It hit the floor.
Click.
The missing wheel rolled away.
Salem stared at it.
"No."
He crouched and picked it up.
His hands were shaking.
"You're saying I gave myself this?"
The voice inside the machine answered.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you knew you wouldn't trust anyone else."
Salem looked at the machine.
"And you?"
"I was never supposed to be trusted."
A pause.
Salem slowly stood.
"Then why should I trust anything you're telling me?"
"You shouldn't."
That answer surprised him.
The machine displayed another message.
DO NOT TRUST ME.
Salem stared.
Then another.
DO NOT TRUST THE MACHINE.
Another.
DO NOT TRUST YOUR MEMORIES.
Salem swallowed.
The final sentence appeared.
TRUST WHAT YOU CHOOSE TO PROTECT.
The room went silent.
Salem looked at the toy.
It was broken now.
One wheel.
Chipped roof.
Scratched windshield.
Yet somehow—
It was still the same.
He smiled faintly.
"That's the problem."
He held it tightly.
"I don't know what I'm protecting anymore."
The voice answered:
"You're protecting the last version of yourself who still believed you had a choice."
Salem's smile disappeared.
The machine began shaking.
Harder.
Harder.
The concrete walls cracked.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
Something slammed against the inside of the machine.
Once.
Twice.
Then dozens of times.
Salem stepped backward.
"What the hell?"
The machine's surface began bending outward.
Something was pushing against it.
The voice changed.
For the first time—
It sounded afraid.
"Salem."
"What?"
"Run."
Salem stared.
"You told me to let you out."
"I changed my mind."
Another impact.
BOOM.
The machine cracked.
A thin black line appeared across its surface.
Salem looked at it.
"What's happening?"
The voice whispered:
"It's not me."
Salem's blood ran cold.
"What?"
The black crack widened.
Something moved behind it.
Not a person.
Not a shadow.
Something much larger.
The voice inside the machine became desperate.
"Salem, listen to me."
Another impact.
"I wasn't trapped in here."
The crack spread across the entire machine.
"I was keeping something else inside."
Salem took another step backward.
The red toy car slipped from his fingers.
It landed on the floor.
The tiny wheel beside it began rolling.
Not away.
Toward the machine.
The machine screamed.
Not with sound.
With light.
Every surface in the room turned white.
Salem covered his eyes.
And through the brightness, he heard one final sentence.
His own voice.
Not the voice of the older Salem.
Not the voice inside the machine.
His own.
From somewhere behind him.
"Salem…"
He slowly turned.
A child stood in the white room.
Six years old.
Holding the red toy car.
The child looked at him.
And smiled.
"You finally remembered me."
Salem couldn't move.
The child tilted his head.
Then whispered:
"Now remember why you killed me."
The lights went out.
And Salem screamed.