The Locked Place
He sat still for a long time after the breakdown.
His throat was dry.
His hands stained with dirt and blood.
The grass around him felt unreal—like plastic masquerading as life.
But through the fog, a thought surfaced.
Not a memory.
A question.
"Why do I still know how to talk?"
He blinked.
"Why do I still understand what a tree is?"
"Why can I feel shame if I can't remember what I've done?"
The wind didn't answer.
But the question didn't leave.
He stood slowly.
Limbs trembling.
Eyes stinging.
He walked.
Back across the field.Back through the path.Back into the quiet corridor that always seemed to exist whether or not he remembered it.
Back to the room.
It was waiting.
Like it always had been.
The window with curtains that never opened.
The mirror still draped.
The bed unmade.
The desk empty—
Except for a sheet of paper.
And an envelope.
He didn't hesitate.
He sat down and picked up the pen that was already there.
And began to write.
His handwriting was sharp. Panicked.
Like the words were trying to outrun the forgetting.
There's a key. I don't know what it opens, but I think I left it somewhere. Somewhere important. Somewhere buried.
I don't know my name, but I still know how to write. That means I didn't lose everything.
Something is locked. Inside me. Around me.
This place is keeping it locked.
The girl won't tell me. Maybe she doesn't know. Maybe she forgot too.
If I forget again, find this. Find the key. The swing. The tree. The Archivist. The walls.
I'm still in here. I'm still real. I think.
He stopped. Breathing hard.
Staring at the paper like it might disappear any moment.
He folded it.
Slipped it into the envelope.
Didn't write a name.
Just placed it gently on the edge of the desk.
And then sat back in the chair.
Staring at nothing.