The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 57

It was late at night.

Sloane sat alone at the desk in her rented apartment. The desk lamp was the only light source in the room, casting her in a dim, yellow halo.

The stack of medical records was spread out across the desk. The topmost report was dated March 15, 2021.

She picked it up and flipped through it page by page. She had just turned twenty-three then. Aside from a touch of mild anemia, every single health marker on the report was absolutely flawless.

Who could have guessed that three years later...

Sloane let out a silent sigh and pulled a black pen from the holder. With agonizing precision, she rested the nib against the final '1' in '2021'. Her movements were so light they were practically soundless.

In a matter of seconds, the number '1' was transformed into a '4'. It matched the printed '4' on the page flawlessly.

It looked completely seamless.

Under the glow of the lamp, Sloane picked up her "new" report, her fingers tracing slowly over the smooth paper.

Suddenly, she thought of that afternoon in the hospital garden. She remembered the scratchy, vibrant sensation of the tortoiseshell cat licking her fingertips.

It was so soft, so fleeting.

Just like the healthy future she had just manually forged—a future she would never live to see.

*

Inside the office at the Metropolitan Aquatics Center.

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