Weathered Journal Page

I can no longer tell if these thoughts are mine or someone else's. The Quieting is not just silence—it’s a devourer of self. We were warned, but none of us could have truly understood. First the background hum of the world faded—no footfalls, no voices, not even breath. Then the memories began to peel away. Not all at once. Just... soft forgettings. I couldn’t remember my daughter’s face yesterday. This morning, I wasn’t sure if I ever had one.

Dr. Kesling disappeared mid-sentence. Not in a flash or scream—she was just gone. Only the pen rolling on the floor remained. Sometimes, I hear my own voice coming from behind the glass of the chambers, speaking words I do not know but feel I once believed. The resonance core pulses more frequently now. We think it’s feeding.

I’ve locked my belongings here, in the hope that I’ll remember this place long enough to come back. Or that someone else might find them, and remember me.

If you're reading this, you're already unraveling.
Burn this place. Before it becomes you.

— M. R.