The eyes stared back at him.
Two enormous eyes.
Black.
Unblinking.
Hidden beneath the broken floor.
Salem couldn't move.
For several seconds, his mind refused to accept what his eyes were seeing.
There shouldn't have been anything beneath the floor.
There shouldn't have been a space beneath the floor.
And there definitely shouldn't have been something looking up at him from it.
The child was still holding Salem's wrist.
His fingers were trembling.
"Don't look at it," he whispered.
Salem swallowed.
"You're the one who told me not to remember."
"I know."
"And now there's something underneath us."
"I know."
"And you expect me not to look?"
The child shook his head.
"No."
Salem stared at him.
"That's not reassuring."
The enormous eyes blinked.
Slowly.
The entire room trembled.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
The child's grip tightened around Salem's wrist.
"Run."
"Where?"
The child pointed toward the bedroom door.
It was gone.
There was only a wall.
Salem looked behind him.
The window was gone too.
The room had changed.
Again.
The walls were stretching.
The ceiling was becoming higher.
The floor beneath them was widening.
What had once been a child's bedroom was turning into something enormous.
A space without dimensions.
Salem looked down.
The crack beneath them had grown.
Something moved underneath it.
Not upward.
Sideways.
Like something was crawling through the foundation of the memory itself.
Salem stepped back.
The child pulled him.
"Come on!"
They ran.
Or tried to.
After three steps, Salem stopped.
The room had no end.
The same wall repeated ahead of them.
The same window.
The same bed.
The same broken floor.
They were running in circles.
Salem looked at the child.
"Where are we going?"
The boy looked confused.
"I don't know."
"You said you've been here."
"I have."
"Then you should know."
"I don't remember."
Salem stopped.
The boy stopped too.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Salem slowly smiled.
"You're lying."
The child looked at him.
"What?"
"You said you didn't remember."
"I don't."
"You just told me you've been here."
"Yes."
"Then you remember being here."
The boy stared at him.
His expression changed.
Not fear.
Something closer to disappointment.
"You're getting better."
"At what?"
"Knowing when someone is lying."
Salem's smile disappeared.
The floor beneath them shook again.
The enormous eyes moved.
They weren't looking at the child anymore.
They were looking at Salem.
Directly at him.
The child noticed.
"It's found you."
Salem whispered:
"What is it?"
The boy answered:
"The part you buried."
Salem looked down.
"The part of me?"
"No."
"Then what?"
The child hesitated.
"The part of the truth."
Silence.
Salem stared at him.
"That doesn't mean anything."
"It will."
The floor cracked again.
This time, something pushed upward.
A hand.
Huge.
Pale.
Its fingers curled around the edge of the broken floor.
Salem instinctively stepped backward.
The child pulled him away.
"Don't let it touch you."
"Why?"
"Because then you'll remember everything."
Salem stopped.
Everything.
The word echoed inside his mind.
Everything.
The machine.
The threads.
The choices.
The red car.
His mother.
The older Salem.
The child.
The missing memories.
He looked at the enormous hand.
Then at the child.
"Maybe I want to remember."
The boy's face changed.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you already did."
Salem froze.
The child continued.
"And you hated what you remembered."
The room went silent.
The hand disappeared beneath the floor.
The eyes closed.
For one brief moment, everything became still.
Then—
A voice spoke.
Not from beneath the floor.
From everywhere.
"You always say that."
Salem's heart stopped.
The voice was his.
Older.
Tired.
Angry.
The same voice from the machine.
"You always say you want the truth."
Salem looked around.
"Show yourself."
"You don't want the truth."
"Then what do I want?"
The voice answered immediately.
"You want a version of the truth you can survive."
Salem's jaw tightened.
"That's not true."
The child looked at him.
"You said that before."
Salem turned toward him.
"Stop saying that."
The child smiled sadly.
"You really don't remember."
"What?"
"The first time you asked me that."
Salem stared.
"When?"
The child pointed toward the red toy car.
It was lying on the floor.
Salem hadn't noticed it had followed them.
He walked toward it.
The car was different now.
The chipped roof was gone.
The scratch across the windshield was gone.
The missing wheel was back.
It looked brand new.
Salem crouched.
"No."
He picked it up.
The moment his fingers touched it—
The world disappeared.
Not darkness.
Nothing.
No room.
No floor.
No child.
No machine.
Just Salem.
Floating.
Alone.
Then he heard a sound.
A heartbeat.
Boom.
Another.
Boom.
Another.
Boom.
He looked down.
His chest was glowing.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
A small light was beating beneath his ribs.
Every heartbeat sent a ripple through the darkness.
Boom.
The darkness moved.
Boom.
Something appeared.
A door.
White.
The same door from the place between choices.
Salem stared at it.
Words were written across it.
YOU ALREADY OPENED THIS.
He approached.
His hand reached toward the handle.
Then he stopped.
"No."
He pulled his hand back.
The door began opening by itself.
A familiar room appeared beyond it.
His old laboratory.
But it wasn't empty.
Someone was sitting at his desk.
Salem couldn't see the face.
He stepped closer.
The figure was writing.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Salem recognized the handwriting.
His own.
The figure stopped.
Then turned.
Salem couldn't see the face.
A black blur covered it.
But the voice—
His.
"Don't open the door."
Salem stared.
"You're the one who opened it."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you told me to."
"I never told you anything."
The figure laughed.
"You always forget that part."
Salem's hands tightened.
"What part?"
The figure stood.
It walked toward him.
One step.
Two.
Three.
The closer it came, the more Salem realized something was wrong.
The clothes were his.
The posture was his.
The voice was his.
But the shadow wasn't.
The shadow belonged to someone else.
It stretched across the laboratory floor.
Long.
Thin.
Almost human.
But its head was turned toward Salem.
Watching him.
The figure stopped.
"Do you remember the first rule?"
Salem frowned.
"What rule?"
"Never trust a memory just because it hurts."
Salem stared.
"Who told me that?"
"You did."
Again.
That answer.
Salem was beginning to hate it.
"Then tell me something."
"What?"
"Why did I kill the boy?"
The figure became completely still.
For the first time—
It didn't answer.
Salem stepped closer.
"Why?"
Nothing.
"Who was he?"
Nothing.
"Was he me?"
The figure looked down.
The shadow moved.
Salem saw the shadow's hand point toward the red car.
Then toward the floor.
Then toward Salem.
The figure finally whispered:
"He wasn't the boy you killed."
Salem's breathing stopped.
"Then who was he?"
The figure raised its head.
"You."
Salem stared.
"That doesn't make sense."
"It isn't supposed to."
"Then explain it."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because you're not ready."
Salem laughed bitterly.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
The figure tilted its head.
"You're still asking the wrong question."
"Then what's the right one?"
The figure stepped closer.
"Why did you need him to die?"
Salem's expression changed.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He didn't know.
The figure continued.
"You didn't kill him because you hated him."
A pause.
"You killed him because you loved him."
Salem's chest tightened.
"No."
"You wanted to save him."
"No."
"You couldn't."
"Stop."
"So you chose the only thing you thought would work."
"Stop."
"You erased him."
"STOP."
The laboratory shattered.
Glass exploded outward.
The desk disappeared.
The figure vanished.
Salem fell.
He fell through darkness.
Through memories.
Through rooms.
Through years.
He saw the child.
He saw the machine.
He saw his mother.
He saw himself.
He saw the red car.
And then—
He saw the moment.
The real moment.
A laboratory.
Smoke.
Alarms.
A young Salem standing beside the time machine.
A child stood in front of him.
Six years old.
Holding the red toy car.
Salem recognized the child immediately.
Himself.
But something was wrong.
The child wasn't crying.
He was smiling.
"Are you sure?"
Young Salem nodded.
"I have to."
The child looked at the machine.
"Will it hurt?"
Young Salem's eyes filled with tears.
"No."
The child smiled.
"You're lying."
Young Salem laughed through his tears.
"I know."
The machine began charging.
The child walked toward him.
"Will you remember me?"
Young Salem looked at him.
"For a while."
"And then?"
Young Salem crouched.
He placed something in the child's hand.
The red toy car.
"When you forget…"
He whispered:
"Keep this."
The child looked at it.
"Why?"
"Because someday you'll need to find me."
The machine reached full power.
The child looked frightened now.
"Salem?"
"Yes?"
"Where will I go?"
Young Salem looked away.
"Somewhere I can't follow."
The child held the toy tighter.
"Will you come back?"
Young Salem didn't answer.
The machine activated.
White light swallowed the room.
Salem screamed.
"No!"
The memory shattered.
He landed on the floor.
The child was standing in front of him.
The same child.
The boy looked at Salem.
This time, he wasn't smiling.
"You remember now."
Salem couldn't speak.
The red car lay between them.
He stared at it.
Then at the boy.
"You weren't killed."
The child shook his head.
"No."
"You were sent somewhere."
"Yes."
"Where?"
The boy looked toward the darkness.
"Beneath the memory."
Salem's face went pale.
The enormous eyes opened again.
This time, Salem understood.
They weren't beneath the floor.
They were beneath the memory itself.
Something had been buried under everything he remembered.
Something Salem had deliberately hidden.
The boy stepped backward.
"You shouldn't have remembered this much."
Salem stood.
"Why?"
The boy looked afraid.
"Because now it knows you remember."
A deep sound rolled through the darkness.
Not a heartbeat.
Not a knock.
A breath.
Something enormous inhaled beneath them.
The boy whispered:
"Run."
Salem didn't move.
"I'm done running."
The boy looked at him.
For the first time, he smiled.
Not the strange smile.
Not the frightening one.
A genuine smile.
Like a child seeing his older brother after years apart.
"Then you'll finally meet it."
The darkness behind him opened.
And Salem saw what was beneath the memory.
Not a monster.
Not a machine.
Not another Salem.
A world.
A complete world.
One that looked exactly like his.
Except—
Everyone inside it was dead.
And in the center of that dead world stood Salem.
Watching him.
Waiting.
The other Salem slowly raised his hand.
And in his palm—
Was the red toy car.
Then he smiled.
"Finally."
The world behind him began moving.
And Salem realized the thing beneath the memory wasn't trying to escape.
It had been waiting for him to come back.