It was left on Mark’s hospital bed while he was sleeping.
No one saw who brought it in.
No fingerprints.
No name.
Just... a music box, beside the tape.
Mariam picked it up.
“It plays,” she whispered. “It’s broken... but it plays.”
Mark’s breath caught.
That tune.
A lullaby his mother used to hum.
A melody he hadn't heard since the fire.
Since before Elijah.
He turned to Father Youssef, who visited that afternoon.
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“Do you believe in… soul fragments?” Mark asked.
The priest nodded slowly.
“Sometimes, trauma splits us.
Not into disorder.
Into defense.”
Mark played the fourth cassette.
But this time… the voice wasn’t Elijah.
It was a child.
“Don’t leave me here, Mark…
It’s cold. I’m scared.”
“You promised we’d stay together.”
“Why’d you shut the door?”
Silence.
Mark dropped the player.
“That wasn’t Elijah…”
Mariam whispered, “That was you, wasn’t it?”
He couldn’t answer.
Because deep down, he knew she was right.
Some part of him—the child version—was still trapped in that burning church.
Still screaming.
That night, he tried something new.
He sat alone.
Closed his eyes.
And whispered:
“Elijah… I’m listening.”
For a moment, nothing.
Then a mirror across the room cracked—just slightly.
And his own voice came from his mouth… but his lips didn’t move.
“Good boy, Mark.
You’re finally ready to remember.”
To be continued...