The room is quiet, but not the peaceful kind. It's the kind of silence that presses in, stretching between the walls, between me and Ezekiel. His presence is a weight in the air, steady, unwavering.
He hasn't spoken since my last words, since I admitted I can't remember. He just watches me, studying, waiting.
I hate waiting.
"Your parents must have been terrified," Ezekiel finally says, his voice even, unreadable.
My fingers twitch against my pants. My parents. The ones who sent me here. The ones who never believed me. A bitter taste fills my mouth, but I force myself to keep my expression neutral.
"My mother cried a lot," I say flatly. "And my father didn't say much. That's how it always was."
Ezekiel hums, tapping his pen against his notebook in slow, rhythmic beats. Not frantic, not impatient—just thoughtful. It's unnerving.
"And how did you feel?"
I huff out a laugh. "What do you think? I was a kid. I was confused. Scared. And then when I realized they weren't listening to me, that they wouldn't listen, I was angry."
His pen stills. "Angry," he repeats.
Something about the way he says it makes my stomach clench. Like he's found something, like he's tracing the edges of something I haven't seen yet.
I shift in my seat. "They thought I did it on purpose," I mutter. "They thought I was some messed-up kid playing around with fire, or having some kind of psychotic break. They never asked why it happened. Just sent me away."
Ezekiel leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His dark eyes don't leave mine. "That must have hurt."
I scoff. "No shit."
He doesn't react to my tone. Doesn't flinch or frown like the other doctors do when I don't play nice. He just watches, calculating, weighing his next words carefully.
Then he says, "They abandoned you."
It's not a question. It's not even an accusation. It's just… a fact.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
A strange tightness settles in my chest, and I don't know if it's because I disagree, or because I don't.
Ezekiel continues, his voice calm, almost gentle. "You were a child, Noah. You didn't ask for this. You tried to tell them the truth, and instead of helping you, they threw you into a place where no one would believe you."
The words dig under my skin, sharp and precise.
He's not wrong.
I don't say anything, but my jaw clenches.
Ezekiel exhales softly, leaning back again. "You know," he muses, tapping his pen against his lower lip, "it's interesting."
I raise an eyebrow, wary. "What is?"
"The way memory works," he says, tone light, conversational. "How time can twist things, smooth over the rough edges. People like to rewrite history in their own heads, especially when guilt is involved."
I shift in my seat. "What are you getting at?"
He tilts his head, studying me. "Do you ever wonder if there are things you don't remember quite right?"
Something cold creeps up my spine.
My first instinct is to snap at him, tell him he's wrong, that I know what happened. But the words don't come.
Because the truth is, I don't remember everything.
I remember my mother crying.
I remember my father's silence.
I remember the heat, the fire licking up the walls.
I remember knowing it was me.
But beyond that?
There are gaps.
Things that don't quite fit.
I always thought so, but now…
I swallow. "Are you saying I imagined it?"
"Not at all," Ezekiel says smoothly. "I'm saying people tend to… simplify things. Reduce them down to their barest emotions. Fear. Anger. Betrayal. It's easier that way, isn't it?" He pauses, watching me carefully.
"It's easier to believe they never loved you at all than to wonder why they did what they did."
"They didn't—"
The words catch in my throat.
Because the truth is, I don't know. I don't know why they did it.
Ezekiel tilts his head slightly. "Do you want to know?"
I stare at him, something uneasy curling in my stomach. "What?"
"Why they sent you here," he says simply. "Not just the reason they told you, but the real reason."
I don't breathe for a second.
It should be obvious, shouldn't it? Because they thought I was dangerous. Because they thought I was unstable. Because they didn't want to deal with me.
But what if—
My pulse picks up.
What if it wasn't that simple?
I look at Ezekiel, trying to read him, but his expression is infuriatingly unreadable.
"You're playing games," I say, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.
His lips twitch, just barely. "No, Noah," he says. "I'm giving you a choice."
I narrow my eyes. "A choice for what?"
"To stop accepting the version of the truth you were given." His voice is softer now, but there's something sharp underneath, something almost… expectant. "To start questioning it."
The room feels too small all of a sudden. Too still.
I don't like this. I don't like that he's making sense. I don't like that there's something in me, some deep, buried part, that wants to believe him.
Because if I do, then I have to admit that I don't know as much as I thought I did.
And that's terrifying.
Ezekiel watches me for a long moment before standing up, smoothing out the front of his shirt.
"Think about it," he says, voice still even, controlled. "We'll talk again soon."
Then he turns and walks to the door, leaving me alone with the silence.
Along with the doubts he planted.