Chapter 22

Chapter 22 (Eleanor’s POV)

The morning air was cold against my skin as I stepped outside.

I zipped up my jacket and pulled my hood over my head, trying to blend into the crowd.

The streets were already busy — people hurrying to work, grabbing coffee, chasing buses.

To anyone watching, I looked like just another teenager running errands.

No one would guess I was carrying a notebook filled with stolen memories.

No one would guess I was about to walk straight into the heart of the people who had tried to erase me.

---

The bus ride to St. James Hospital felt longer than usual.

I sat by the window, watching the city blur past.

My heart thudded in my chest, a steady drumbeat of nerves.

I clutched my backpack tightly, feeling the hard shape of my flashlight and phone inside.

No going back now.

No changing my mind.

---

When the bus finally pulled up to the hospital stop, I hesitated.

My feet didn’t want to move.

Fear wrapped around my ankles, trying to drag me back.

I closed my eyes for a second, breathing in deep.

"You're doing this for Alex," I whispered under my breath.

"For us."

I stepped off the bus.

---

The hospital was huge — a sprawling mix of shiny new wings and older, forgotten buildings.

I didn’t head for the front entrance where the automatic doors whooshed open and shut every few seconds.

Instead, I walked around the side, past the employee parking lot, toward the service entrances.

The old part of the hospital sat hunched behind the newer sections like a secret no one wanted to talk about.

Windows were boarded up.

Paint peeled from the walls.

The sign that once read "West Wing" hung crooked on rusty chains.

Perfect.

---

I found a side door that looked barely used.

I tried the handle.

Locked.

Figures.

I glanced around quickly.

No one nearby.

No security guards.

I set my backpack down and pulled out a bobby pin from the small pocket inside.

Lena had taught me how to pick simple locks once during one of our "spy games."

I never thought I'd actually use it.

Hands shaking, I fiddled with the lock.

It took longer than I wanted.

Each second felt like an hour.

But finally, there was a soft click, and the door creaked open.

I slipped inside, heart hammering.

---

The hallway smelled musty.

Old papers.

Dust.

The faint metallic tang of forgotten machines.

The lights flickered weakly overhead, buzzing like lazy insects.

I moved carefully, my sneakers making soft scuffing sounds on the cracked linoleum floor.

Most of the doors were closed, but labels still hung beside them:

Records Room A

Storage 3B

Psychiatric Evaluation Wing (that one made my stomach turn)

I kept walking, deeper into the abandoned wing.

---

Finally, at the end of the hallway, I found it.

Records Room C.

The door was slightly ajar, like someone had forgotten to lock it properly.

I pushed it open gently and slipped inside.

The air was even thicker here, filled with dust motes dancing in the pale light.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked with folders and boxes.

No neat digital databases here.

Just old paper and forgotten names.

I pulled out my flashlight and clicked it on, the beam cutting through the gloom.

Now the real work began.

---

I searched shelf after shelf.

Papers rustled under my fingers.

Old medical records.

Birth certificates.

Death reports.

So many names.

So many lives.

And somewhere among them — me.

I crouched by the lower shelves, pulling out boxes at random.

Every few minutes, I thought I heard footsteps outside the room.

I would freeze, holding my breath, ears straining.

But nothing happened.

Just my imagination.

Or maybe not.

---

After what felt like an hour, my knees aching and my fingers covered in dust, I found it.

A folder labeled: Hayes, Eleanor.

My heart skipped.

I sat back on my heels and opened it carefully.

Inside were sheets of paper clipped together.

Hospital records.

Doctor notes.

And there — buried among them — the words that confirmed everything:

Subject shows high resilience to memory suppression. Secondary treatments recommended.

My hands shook as I turned the page.

More technical language.

More cold, clinical descriptions of me like I was an experiment.

Not a girl.

Not a person.

Just a number.

---

Then I found a report dated six months ago.

The words blurred as I read them:

"Memory traces persistent. Subject recalls emotional attachment figure (designated Subject X). Recommend observation and additional exposure to Memory Dissolution Program."

I blinked rapidly.

"Subject X" had to be Alex.

Even if they tried to hide it behind stupid labels and codes, I knew.

I felt it in my bones.

They didn’t just erase my memories.

They tried to erase my love.

My soul.

---

A noise outside the room made me snap the folder shut.

Footsteps.

Closer.

I scrambled up, clutching the folder to my chest.

The door creaked slightly.

I ducked behind one of the tall shelves just as the door opened wider.

A beam of light swung into the room.

A security guard.

I pressed myself against the wall, heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

He stepped inside, his flashlight sweeping lazily across the rows.

My breath caught in my throat.

If he found me…

If he reported me…

It would all be over.

---

The guard muttered something about rats and backed out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

I stayed frozen for a full minute after he left, my body shaking.

Finally, when I was sure it was safe, I slipped the folder into my backpack and zipped it shut.

I crept to the door and peeked out.

The hallway was empty.

I moved fast but careful, retracing my steps through the twisting corridors.

Every sound made me flinch.

Every shadow made my skin crawl.

---

When I finally slipped back out the side door into the open air, I sagged against the wall, gasping.

The sky had darkened while I was inside.

The wind was colder now.

But I didn’t care.

I had the folder.

I had proof.

They couldn’t gaslight me anymore.

They couldn’t tell me I was crazy.

I wasn’t crazy.

I was right.

And now I had the first piece of the puzzle to prove it.

---

I clutched my backpack tightly and hurried to the bus stop.

The ride home was a blur.

I kept my backpack on my lap the whole time, one hand resting protectively over it.

I didn’t feel safe until I was back in my room, door locked, blinds drawn.

Only then did I dare pull out the folder again.

Only then did I dare let myself believe it was real.

---

I curled up on my bed, reading every word carefully.

Trying to piece together the story they tried to bury.

My story.

Alex’s story.

Our story.

And somewhere deep inside, despite the fear, despite the exhaustion...

A new feeling stirred.

Hope.

Small.

Fragile.

But alive.

Maybe... just maybe... I could win this.

Maybe... just maybe... I could find my way back to him.