The hidden door slammed shut behind us.
I turned immediately.
—Adrian.
He tried the handle.
Nothing.
—It’s locked.
My heart began racing.
—Then open it.
—I can’t.
—You said you knew this place.
—I don’t.
He looked at the screen.
My father’s face had disappeared.
The room was silent except for the low hum of the projector.
I looked at the photograph again.
Six names.
Then mine.
THE SEVENTH REMEMBERS EVERYTHING.
—What does that mean?
Adrian didn’t answer.
—Adrian.
He looked at me.
—I’m trying to figure it out.
—Your brother.
His expression changed.
—What about him?
—The photograph showed him.
—That’s impossible.
—Your father knew him.
—My father knew a lot of people.
—And Martin called himself your brother.
Adrian shook his head.
—Martin Carter is not my brother.
—Then why does the photograph say otherwise?
He walked toward the projector.
—Because someone wants me to believe he is.
I followed him.
—And you don’t?
—No.
—Why?
He stared at the frozen image.
—Because my mother told me I was an only child.
I frowned.
—Maybe she lied.
Adrian went quiet.
That possibility clearly frightened him.
Before he could answer, the projector switched on again.
A new video appeared.
My father.
This time he wasn’t sitting at a desk.
He was standing in the same room.
The room we were in.
He looked directly at the camera.
—If you’re watching this, Sophia, then you found the room beneath the old archive.
I looked around.
—He knew we’d come here.
Adrian nodded.
My father continued.
—There are seven names on the wall.
He paused.
—Six of them belong to people who knew the truth.
The image flickered.
—The seventh belongs to the person who was never supposed to remember it.
My heart tightened.
—Me.
Adrian looked at me.
—Yes.
The video continued.
—Sophia, I erased your memory because I had no other choice.
I froze.
Adrian stared at the screen.
—What?
My father continued.
—You saw something that night.
Something that would have made you a target.
My hands began trembling.
—You weren’t supposed to remember Adrian.
A strange feeling passed through me.
—Why?
My father’s expression became sad.
—Because you trusted him.
Adrian looked at me.
—What does that mean?
The video continued.
—And because the person you trusted most was the person I feared most.
The screen went black.
I stared at it.
—Who?
Nothing.
—Dad?
No response.
Then the projector displayed a single word.
REMEMBER.
The lights flickered.
A sharp pain passed through my head.
I grabbed the table.
Images appeared.
A hallway.
Rain.
My father’s voice.
Adrian shouting.
A woman crying.
A door opening.
Then— A boy.
Not Adrian.
Another boy.
He was standing beside my father.
Sixteen years old.
He looked almost identical to Adrian.
Same dark hair.
Same eyes.
But there was something different about him.
He looked terrified.
The boy reached for my hand.
—Sophia, you have to forget me.
I gasped.
The memory disappeared.
Adrian caught my arm.
—What did you see?
I looked at him.
—Your brother.
His face went pale.
—What did he say?
—He told me to forget him.
Adrian stepped back.
—That’s impossible.
—You keep saying that.
—Because he died when he was eight.
I stared at him.
—What?
Adrian looked toward the floor.
—His name was Julian.
The room seemed to stop.
—Then who is Martin?
—I don’t know.
—But Martin said— —I know what he said.
Adrian ran a hand through his hair.
—My brother died eleven years ago.
—How?
He hesitated.
—An accident.
I looked at him.
—That’s what everyone says when they don’t want to tell the truth.
Adrian didn’t respond.
I realized he was thinking the same thing.
My father had warned me about the Blackwoods.
Adrian had warned me about his own family.
Maybe neither of us had known the whole story.
A loud sound came from above.
Someone was trying to open the hidden door.
Adrian immediately turned off the projector.
—We need another way out.
I looked around.
There had to be one.
My father had built this room for a reason.
I searched the walls.
Nothing.
Then I noticed something.
A small silver mark beneath the map.
A circle.
The same symbol from the photograph.
I touched it.
A section of the wall moved.
A narrow passage opened.
Adrian stared.
—How did you know?
—I didn’t.
The passage was dark.
I looked back at him.
—Are you coming?
He nodded.
We stepped inside.
The wall closed behind us.
The passage led upward.
After several minutes, we reached a small room.
There was a single window.
I looked outside.
We were inside the old Blackwood Theater.
I recognized the stage below.
Adrian looked around.
—This was my father’s private archive.
—You’ve been here before?
—Once.
—When?
—The night my brother died.
I turned toward him.
—You said he died eleven years ago.
—Yes.
—And you were eight?
—Eight.
—So you remember him.
Adrian nodded.
—Every day.
His voice was quieter now.
—What was he like?
Adrian looked toward the stage.
—He was nothing like me.
I smiled faintly.
—That’s probably good.
Adrian almost smiled.
Then he stopped.
—He loved people.
I looked at him.
—And you don’t?
He glanced at me.
—I’m trying.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then a noise came from downstairs.
We both looked toward the stage.
Someone had entered the theater.
Adrian moved closer to the window.
—They’re looking for us.
—The Blackwoods?
—Probably.
—Then we should leave.
He nodded.
We moved toward the back exit.
But before we reached it, a voice echoed through the empty theater.
—Adrian.
He stopped.
I recognized the voice.
Martin.
—You can’t keep running from the truth.
Adrian closed his eyes.
Martin stepped onto the stage.
He looked up at us.
—Come down.
Adrian shook his head.
—No.
Martin smiled.
—You saw the video.
—Yes.
—Then you know.
—Know what?
Martin’s expression changed.
—That Julian didn’t die.
Silence.
I looked at Adrian.
His face had gone completely pale.
—What did you say?
Martin repeated: —Your brother didn’t die.
Adrian took a step forward.
—You’re lying.
—Your father told everyone Julian was dead.
—Why?
—Because he had to disappear him.
—From who?
Martin looked at me.
—From the people who were searching for him.
I felt a chill.
—Why would anyone search for a child?
Martin’s expression became serious.
—Because Julian knew what the organization was doing.
Adrian shook his head.
—He was eight.
—Exactly.
Martin paused.
—He saw something he wasn’t supposed to see.
Adrian’s voice broke.
—What?
Martin looked at me.
—He saw what happened to Daniel Bennett.
My heart stopped.
—No.
Martin nodded.
—Julian was there the night your father died.
Adrian looked at me.
—You remember him.
I swallowed.
—Yes.
Martin smiled sadly.
—Then you’re finally starting to remember everything.
A sound came from behind us.
We turned.
The door to the archive opened.
A young man stood there.
Dark hair.
Same eyes as Adrian.
Older now.
Alive.
He looked at Adrian.
Then at me.
And whispered: —You weren’t supposed to remember me.
Adrian couldn’t move.
—Julian?
The young man nodded.
Then he looked at me.
—And neither were you supposed to remember what you did that night.
My heart stopped.
—What did I do?
Julian’s expression broke.
—You were the one who opened the door.
The theater went silent.
—What door?
—I whispered.
Julian looked toward Adrian.
—The door that let them in.