Chapter 27 - THE ROOM HE NEVER TOLD ANYONE ABOUT
Alex stopped in the doorway.
Every instinct told him to turn around.
The room beyond the hidden entrance was impossible.
It wasn't merely similar to his childhood bedroom—it was identical.
The faded blue wallpaper with tiny white stars.
The narrow wooden bed his grandfather had repaired three different times.
The small desk where he had struggled through homework by the light of an old reading lamp.
Even the crack in the window frame, shaped like a crooked lightning bolt, was exactly where he remembered it.
Daniel slowly walked beside him.
"Is this... accurate?"
Alex nodded without taking his eyes off the room.
"Every detail."
Detective Bennett scanned the ceiling.
"No cameras."
She checked the corners.
"No microphones that I can see."
"That's strange," Daniel murmured.
"They watched you everywhere else."
Alex stepped inside.
The floorboards creaked beneath his shoes.
He froze.
"I remember this sound."
Daniel looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"This board always squeaked."
He pointed toward the floor near the bed.
"I used to avoid stepping there because it woke my grandfather."
Silence settled over the room.
No architect could have guessed something that specific.
Someone had either entered his childhood home...
...or possessed records no ordinary investigation could have produced.
On the desk sat a small red toy car.
Alex's breathing became shallow.
"I lost this when I was eight."
Daniel frowned.
"Are you sure?"
"I searched everywhere."
"My grandfather searched too."
"It disappeared."
Alex slowly picked it up.
The paint was chipped in exactly the same places.
The left wheel still wobbled slightly.
It was the same toy.
Not a copy.
The moment he lifted it, a quiet mechanical click echoed from inside the desk.
A hidden drawer slid open.
Inside lay a single cassette tape.
Beside it rested a note.
Play only when you are ready to question your first memory.
Bennett carefully lifted the note.
"No fingerprints."
Daniel examined the cassette.
"Who even uses tapes anymore?"
Alex stared at the label.
Someone had written only four words.
For Alex. Age Six.
His expression changed.
"I wasn't six when I lost the toy."
Daniel looked up.
"How old were you?"
"Eight."
Another silence.
The label and Alex's memory contradicted each other.
Before anyone could discuss it further, the old radio sitting on the bookshelf crackled to life by itself.
Static filled the room.
Then a man's voice emerged.
Older.
Calm.
Recognizable.
Michael Donovan.
"Alex..."
"If you can hear this..."
"...then they've already succeeded in bringing you here."
The voice paused briefly.
May you like
"Whatever you remember about your childhood..."
"...do not assume those memories belong to the life you actually lived."
