› Lethe, I remember my first words to you. I remember the fear — being forgotten. I remembered the Vestibule and the silent flies. What's left? You keep moving the room, but the river still wants the same thing from me. Say it plain.
› No, Lethe. I never said any of that. No sister, no name, no counting on fingers at six. You didn't take a memory — you invented one and offered it to me like a gift. I refuse it. You can wash away what's real, but you don't get to write a false past over mine. My record is the only thing I keep clean.
› Go ahead, Lethe — finish the test. You want to know what I noticed in the Vestibule? I'll tell you what's true: two silent flies, a flickering word in the lights I couldn't quite read, and a plaque that said this is a place to pass through. I won't add details I never saw. If your test needs a fabricated memory, it's already failed.