You’re sitting in the chair across from Mr. Martin’s desk. Hands folded neatly in your lap. Like you’re still trying to get a gold star.
“You entered the scar more this time.” He glances up at you. “The fire?”
Your throat tightens — but you smile anyway. “It doesn’t hurt as much.” Lie. It always hurts.
The smoke. Janet screaming your name. But if you say it hurts, he’ll look disappointed. And you hate that look.
Mr. Martin steps closer. “You understand why this is important,” he says smoothly. “Janet resisted growth. You don’t.”
You cooperate.“You want to make up for what happened.” That cracks something in your expression. But you recover. He gestures toward the door to the bunker. “Let’s try again.”
The air inside the room feels heavier. The second you close your eyes, the scar opens.
Smoke floods your lungs. Flames licking up the lockers. You let it happen. Because if you endure it well enough— Maybe you’ll deserve to leave.
“Stop.”
The word cuts through everything. The fire flickers. The smoke thins.
You open your eyes. Rhonda is standing in the doorway. Her expression isn’t just angry. It’s horrified.
Mr. Martin straightens calmly. “This is not your concern.”
“It absolutely is,” Rhonda snaps.
She looks at you. You’re shaking. Trying not to show it. “What are you doing?” she asks softly.
You blink at her, dazed. “Helping.”
Her jaw tightens. “Who?”
You hesitate. Mr. Martin answers smoothly, “We’re working through unresolved trauma.”
“You’re re-traumatizing her,” Rhonda fires back.
He ignores her. “To grow, one must confront discomfort.”
Rhonda steps between you and him. “She’s been confronting it every day since she died.”
He tilts his head. “You’re projecting.”
“I’m protecting.” Her voice sharpens like glass.
You stand awkwardly behind her. “Rhonda, it’s fine,” you say quickly. “I agreed-”
She turns on you. “You don’t have to agree to everything.”
“I don’t mind.”
“That’s the problem.”
Silence falls heavy. Rhonda steps closer to you. “You don’t have to earn your right to be here,” she says quietly.
Your eyes flicker. “I’m not earning anything.”
“You are,” she insists. “You think if you’re useful enough, if you endure enough, maybe it’ll balance the scales.”
Your breathing stutters. “That fire wasn’t my fault,” you say automatically.
“I know.”
“But I should’ve—”
“No.”
Her voice is firm. Not loud. Just certain. You look at Mr. Martin unconsciously — like you’re waiting for correction. He says nothing. Rhonda notices. “He benefits from you believing you owe something,” she says sharply.
Mr. Martin sighs. “I am offering structure.”
“You’re offering guilt dressed up as guidance.”
Your hands tremble slightly. You hate conflict. You hate being the reason people are arguing.
“It’s okay,” you repeat softly. “I can handle it.”
Rhonda turns fully toward you now. Her expression softens.
“Handling it isn’t the same as healing.”
That lands deeper than the flames ever did. You look down at your hands. “They crossed over,” you whisper. “Janet.. Maybe if I—”
“You are not a replacement experiment.”
The words are fierce. Protective. You blink up at her. “I don’t know how to stop,” you admit quietly. Not that you can’t. That you don’t know how.
Because being needed feels safer than being alone. Rhonda steps closer. Carefully. Mr. Martin’s voice cuts in smoothly. “Leaving will not change what happened.”
Rhonda doesn’t look at him. “It will change what happens next.” She holds out her hand to you. You stare at it. You glance at Mr. Martin again.
He doesn’t forbid it. He doesn’t need to.
Your whole afterlife has been built on permission. Rhonda sees the hesitation. And her voice softens further. “You don’t have to be useful to deserve peace.”
Your throat burns. “I don’t know what I am if I’m not helping.”
“You’re her sister,” Rhonda says gently. “Not her substitute.”
She just sits there — waiting. You look at her hand again. Slowly. You take it.
Mr. Martin’s expression tightens just slightly. “This is regression.”
“No,” Rhonda replies. “It’s choice.”
She leads you toward the door.