She didn’t remember making the promise, but her signature was there all the same. It was carved into the wall this time. Not ink. Not paper. Stone. Her name repeated over and over, layered on top of itself as though she had signed it countless times before. “I don’t remember this,” she whispered. But that wasn’t new. Nothing was. The room was familiar in the way a recurring dream is familiar—every detail known, yet never fully understood. At the center stood the table. And on it, the instructions. They were always there. They always said the same thing. When you remember, sign again. Her chest tightened. “Why?” The question echoed uselessly. She moved closer, her steps guided by something deeper than memory. Habit, perhaps. Or design. A knife lay beside the instructions. Her hand hovered over it. A flicker of recognition surfaced—pain, urgency, repetition. She didn’t know what the promise was for. But she knew it mattered. She picked up the knife, pressing it lightly against her skin. The first line of a new signature. Somewhere, faintly, she felt the cycle shifting. Breaking. Or beginning again. Whatever happened next, it would no longer be an accident.