Darkness.
Complete darkness.
Salem couldn't see anything.
He couldn't feel the floor beneath his feet.
He couldn't even tell whether he was standing or falling.
For a moment, he wondered if he'd finally stopped existing.
Then—
A voice.
"Salem?"
His eyes opened.
He was sitting on the floor.
Rain was falling outside a window.
A familiar room surrounded him.
Small.
Quiet.
Warm.
Too warm.
Salem looked down.
His hands were smaller.
Much smaller.
He stared at them.
A child's hands.
His breathing stopped.
"No…"
He tried to stand.
His legs were short.
His body felt wrong.
He ran toward the window.
His reflection appeared in the glass.
A little boy stared back.
Six years old.
Messy hair.
Rounder face.
And frightened eyes.
Salem stumbled backward.
"What…"
His voice was different.
Higher.
Younger.
He touched his throat.
"No."
The boy in the reflection did the same.
Salem froze.
He wasn't watching a memory.
He was inside it.
A door opened behind him.
"Salem?"
He turned.
His mother stood there.
For a moment, he couldn't move.
He had spent what felt like an eternity trying to remember her face.
Now she was standing directly in front of him.
Real.
Clear.
Alive.
His eyes filled with tears.
"Mom…"
She smiled.
"What's wrong?"
Salem rushed toward her.
He grabbed her.
She froze.
Then gently wrapped her arms around him.
"Salem?"
He buried his face against her.
He could smell her perfume.
Feel the warmth of her clothes.
Hear her breathing.
Every detail was perfect.
Too perfect.
Salem pulled away.
His mother looked confused.
"You're crying."
"I…"
He wiped his face.
"I'm fine."
She smiled.
"You're never very convincing."
For a second, Salem almost laughed.
Then he remembered.
The child.
The machine.
The red car.
The voice.
Remember why you killed me.
His mother's smile disappeared.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
The room became silent.
The rain stopped.
Salem looked toward the window.
Every raindrop had frozen in midair.
His mother turned toward the door.
"Don't go in there."
Salem frowned.
"Where?"
She pointed.
At the bedroom.
The door was slightly open.
Salem stared at it.
Something was inside.
He knew it.
"Mom…"
She didn't look at him.
"Don't."
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
She turned.
Her eyes were suddenly empty.
"You always say that."
Salem's chest tightened.
"Say what?"
She smiled.
But it wasn't her smile.
It was the same smile the child had given him.
"You always want to know."
The bedroom door opened another inch.
Creak.
Salem stepped backward.
His mother whispered:
"Don't remember."
Then the lights went out.
Salem was alone.
The bedroom door was completely open now.
He stared into the darkness.
A small voice came from inside.
"Come in."
Salem didn't move.
"Come on."
The voice sounded like him.
Six years old.
He took one step.
Then another.
The room was almost completely dark.
Except for one object.
The red toy car.
It sat in the center of the floor.
Perfectly intact.
Salem stared at it.
"You."
The toy car moved.
Just slightly.
A tiny roll forward.
Salem crouched.
He reached for it.
His fingers touched the plastic.
And the world changed.
A flash.
The laboratory.
Older Salem.
The machine.
Blood.
Another flash.
A corridor.
Someone running.
Another.
A hospital room.
A child crying.
Another.
The red car.
Always the red car.
Salem pulled his hand away.
"No."
The memory continued without him.
He saw himself.
Not as a child.
Not as the Salem standing in the room.
Another Salem.
Older.
He was kneeling beside the machine.
His hands were covered in blood.
Someone was lying on the floor.
Salem couldn't see their face.
The older version of himself was crying.
"No…"
He heard himself whisper:
"I didn't have a choice."
The person on the floor moved.
A hand reached toward him.
The older Salem grabbed it.
"I didn't have a choice."
The memory distorted.
A voice answered.
"You always say that."
Salem watched helplessly.
The older version stood.
He pressed something on the machine.
A flash of white light.
The person disappeared.
The memory ended.
Salem's eyes opened.
He was back inside the bedroom.
The red car was still in front of him.
He picked it up.
"What did I do?"
The child answered.
"You killed me."
Salem turned.
The six-year-old boy stood beside the window.
He was holding the same toy car.
Two red cars.
Exactly identical.
Salem stared.
"Who are you?"
The child smiled.
"You know."
"No."
"You do."
"I don't."
The child walked closer.
Salem backed away.
"You're me."
The boy nodded.
"Yes."
"Then why don't I remember you?"
The boy's smile faded.
"Because you weren't supposed to."
"Who decided that?"
"You."
Salem stared at him.
"That doesn't make sense."
The child shrugged.
"Nothing does."
For the first time, Salem noticed something strange.
The boy's shadow was facing the wrong direction.
The light came from the window.
But the shadow stretched toward it.
Salem stared.
The child noticed.
"You see it now."
"What are you?"
The child looked at his own shadow.
"I don't know."
"Are you a memory?"
"No."
"An alternate version?"
"No."
"Then what?"
The child looked at Salem.
"I'm what you left behind."
Salem's heart sank.
"What did I leave behind?"
The boy didn't answer.
Instead, he pointed toward the floor.
There was something written there.
Salem crouched.
Words.
Written in black ink.
ONE MEMORY CAN BE A LIE.
Salem's eyes narrowed.
The child continued:
"But one memory can also be the only truth you have."
Salem looked at him.
"Which one is this?"
The child smiled.
"That's why you're here."
The room began shaking.
The walls cracked.
The rain outside started falling again.
But now the raindrops were black.
Salem stood.
"Where am I?"
The child answered:
"Inside the memory you tried to destroy."
Salem's face went pale.
"I destroyed this?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The child looked toward the window.
"Because you were scared."
"Of what?"
The boy didn't answer.
Instead, he pointed at the glass.
Salem turned.
His reflection had changed.
He was no longer six.
He was himself.
The Salem from the machine.
But standing behind his reflection was another figure.
Older.
Scarred.
Watching him.
Salem turned around.
Nobody.
He looked back at the window.
The figure was still there.
It leaned closer.
And Salem recognized the clothes.
His clothes.
The same ones he had been wearing when he entered the machine.
The reflection smiled.
Salem didn't.
"Who are you?"
The reflection raised one finger to its lips.
Then whispered:
"Don't let him wake up."
Salem's eyes widened.
"Who?"
The reflection pointed downward.
Salem looked at the child.
The boy was gone.
The room was empty.
Only the red toy car remained.
Salem slowly picked it up.
Then—
A heartbeat.
Boom.
He froze.
Boom.
The sound came from underneath the floor.
Boom.
Salem stepped backward.
The wooden floor began cracking.
Something was moving underneath it.
He stared.
"What's down there?"
The reflection answered.
"You."
Salem's face went pale.
"No."
The floor split open.
A hand emerged.
Small.
A child's hand.
Salem stumbled backward.
The hand grabbed the edge of the floor.
Then another appeared.
The boy pulled himself upward.
But this time—
He wasn't smiling.
He was terrified.
"Salem!"
Salem stared.
"What?"
The boy looked behind him.
Something was coming.
"Don't let it see you."
"What?"
The boy grabbed Salem's wrist.
"Whatever happens…"
The floor beneath them began opening wider.
The boy's voice trembled.
"Don't remember why you killed me."
Salem stared at him.
"But you told me to remember."
The boy looked directly into his eyes.
"I lied."
The room went silent.
Then something underneath the floor whispered:
"Good."
The boy's face turned white.
Salem slowly looked down.
Two enormous eyes opened beneath the broken floor.
And they were looking directly at him.