You Will Forget This Story

He woke in a room he didn't recognize.

The light was soft. Not warm. Not cold. Just… there. Except this time, it was pale green, not grey. Dim and humid, like the air had been holding its breath.

The bed was made. Not perfectly—one corner of the blanket hung too far off the edge, as if someone had gotten up in a rush. The pillow had a dent in it.

The wallpaper was peeling in a line near the window. A single crack traced the ceiling.

He sat up slowly. The floor was colder than he remembered.

Wait.

Remembered?

He blinked. The thought slipped away.

On the nightstand sat an envelope.

Cream-colored, same as before. But this one had a wax seal. Red, unbroken, stamped with a simple, clean circle.

He opened it.

Inside was a handwritten note. Different paper this time—rougher, torn at the top like it had been ripped from a notebook.

The handwriting was different too. Still slanted, but neater than before.

"If you're reading this, don't panic."

"It's not the first time. It won't be the last."

"You will forget this story. That's how it keeps you safe."

"Do not ask her about the fire."

There was no name. But this time, there was a smudge of fingerprint ink on the corner of the page. His fingerprint? He didn't know.

He set the letter down. It made no sound.

Across the room, a mirror stood on the wall.

He looked at it.

This time, the reflection was a little too slow.

It tilted its head slightly later than he did. Like it was checking first to see what he would do.

He looked away.

There was a door.

He hadn't seen it before, but now it was open. Just slightly. The light from the hallway outside was flickering.

He stood. The floor groaned under his weight.

As he stepped toward the door, the mirror whispered—not out loud, but in memory:

"You've done this before."

He reached the doorway and paused.

There was something new on the wall beside the doorframe: a child's drawing, crudely taped there. Crayons. Blue and red. A stick figure with yellow hair. Another with none. A sun with a smile.

He stared at it, but nothing came to him. No recognition.

Just an ache in the ribs.

He turned and stepped through.

The hallway was different.

Not long and endless now. Just quiet. And lined with pictures that had been scratched out—their faces blurred, smeared, erased.

He looked back.

The door was gone.

There was only wall.

He looked down at his hands.

Still clean.

But his sleeves were wet.