(Leaning closer to the glass) Okay. Spooky. So the wall copies the shape of whoever touches it. We paint over it.

There is no right door. There’s only the one you walk through. Peterson ran. He chose life. And then he came back here to die because he couldn't forgive himself for choosing. The echo doesn't want your hand. It wants your guilt . Don't give it.

How do you live with it? The whisper?

He survived the breach. He went back to his cell. But at 03:14 the next morning, he stood up, walked back to this spot, placed his hand exactly on that print, and stood there until his heart stopped. Cause of death? Spontaneous advanced rigor mortis. He turned to stone from the fingers inward.

You said it was contained.

(Lifting her hand again, slowly) What’s on the other side? If I put my hand in?

(Removes his own suppressor. He places his hand flat on the glass, over her shadow. He is risking exposure.) Agent. Look at me.

That’s poetry, not physics.