CHAPTER 29
The page was yellowed, folded so many times that it had softened into something like skin. It smelled like old metal and mildew and the hush of time no one dared to speak about.
But the name on it—my name—was printed clear as day.
"Patient: Jasmine [REDACTED]. Organ consent signed by: Glory [REDACTED]. Status: Deceased. Consent Date: 313 days ago."
There was a line at the bottom, stamped in deep blue:
DO NOT REVIVE — CATEGORY: K-VARIANT – Subsection: ECHO.
My throat closed up. I read the words once, then again, but they didn’t change. Didn’t shift into something kinder or explain themselves. They just sat there, fixed and final.
The same number. 313. The same number scratched into the wall by the stairs. The same number of days since Brianna had died. Or since I’d come ba
