Page 160 of Hidden Echoes

I didn’t respond.

“I need you to sign here.” He held out a paper. No explanation.

I narrowed my eyes. “Will they kill you if I don’t sign?”

A flicker of hesitation. A glance to the side. A slow, almost imperceptible nod.

I took the pen and signed. I knew what it was. A document pretending I agreed to whatever they were doing to me. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

The man and Rachel disappeared. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Had I dreamt it all?

No. No, it was real. I knew it was real.

But then why did my mind feel like it was splitting apart, like reality was slipping through my fingers? There was a hole in my memories, dark and gaping. I couldn’t reach the other side.

The door creaked again.

Paulina.

She entered the room like a gust of cold wind—her expression calm, detached, as if the past months hadn’t existed for either of us. As if she hadn’t carved herself into my nightmares.

“Your luck is about to change, Mia,” she said smoothly, folding her hands in front of her. “Your father has agreed to relocate you. You’ll stay at your grandfather’s estate. You’ll return to your routine and begin preparing to reintegrate. It’s time you were useful again.”

I laughed—sharp, breathless, on the edge of hysterical.

“What did you do to him?”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“To Zane,” I snapped, stepping forward. “What did you do to him?”

A pause. A flicker of something behind her eyes. Confusion? Calculation?

Paulina’s tone dropped, calm as a lake before a storm. “Can you tell me who you're referring to, Mia?”

“You know very well,” I growled. “Don’t play that game with me. He’s real. He’s real.”

She tilted her head, voice laced with pity. “You were alone, Mia.”

“No,” I said quickly. “No. He was there. He stayed with me. We—” My voice cracked. “We traveled. France. Spain. He taught me how to exist without fear. He held me when I cried. I wore his stupid clothes. He hated when I stole his hoodies—”

“Mia—”

“Don’t!” I pointed at her, rage climbing up my throat like bile. “Don’t you dare look at me like I made him up. I know he’s real.”

She stepped closer, slowly, her heels soft against the floor.

“Do you hear yourself?” she asked gently. “You’ve been in this facility for over four years. You never left, Mia. Never traveled. Never had a boyfriend. You were sedated after your last… episode.”

I shook my head violently. “That’s a lie. I remember him. His voice. His scent. I remember the way he looked at me like I wasn’t broken.”

“You dreamed him into existence,” she said. “That’s what your mind does, Mia. It creates narratives to survive. You’ve always done this—since you were a child. Do you remember Adele, your friend?”

I faltered. “She was—”

“She never existed. We made her up together, remember? As part of your therapeutic roleplay.”

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