Lily’s hand trembles. The camera shakes.

On the nightstand, under a lamp he’d never thought to move, was a small brass key.

She crouches in front of him. Rips off the tape. He doesn’t scream. He just says, very softly, in English: “You will forget your own name before I tell you.”

But last night, he dreamed of a desert. No stars. No moon. Just a single concrete wall with a handle. And behind the wall, someone whispering his name.