Chapter 2: I Began Recording Myself

It was at 9:43 p.m. that I seriously began to doubt my own mental state for the first time.

Not because the power outage had been restored.
Not because my coworkers had brushed off everything from the day as coincidence.

What truly unsettled me was what I found after I got home—
a notebook in my drawer that I didn’t recognize.

A black cover. No markings at all.

I was certain I hadn’t bought it recently.
Because in the lower right corner of the cover was a patch scraped over and over by fingernails—my habit when I’m anxious. Yet I didn’t remember being anxious to that degree lately.

I sat at my desk and opened the first page.

There was only one line, written with extreme steadiness, as if the writer had deliberately slowed their hand:

“Do not trust the continuity of your memory.”

My throat tightened.

This wasn’t a warning.
It was a conclusion.

I turned the page.

From the second page onward were dated, time-stamped entries. The handwriting changed noticeably—some messy, some neat, some not even resembling the same person.

July 3
I am certain the world is repeating, but I can’t prove it. All evidence disappears at certain nodes.

July 5
Today I tried explaining the “reset” to a coworker. The way they looked at me was the way people look at patients.

July 6
I may be wrong. Maybe the world isn’t repeating. Maybe I am being repeatedly modified.

My palms began to sweat.

I flipped faster and faster, the pages rasping against each other, as if urging me to stop.

July 9
The record itself is starting to fail.
I’ve noticed I “rationalize” anomalies, forcing them into normal logic.

July 11
If you’re reading this, it means I’ve already failed.
Do not try to remember. Memory will be contaminated.

I snapped the notebook shut.

The apartment was silent. The refrigerator hummed at a low frequency. A question suddenly struck me—

If I wrote this, why do I have absolutely no memory of it?

Not vague.
Not blurry.

Completely blank.

Which meant that during some stretch of time, I had continued living normally—working, speaking, functioning—
but I was not present.

I forced myself to calm down and made a phone call.

Zhou Wan.

She was the only person I knew whose profession required her to believe in “anomalies”—
a psychiatrist.

The phone rang for a long time before she answered.

“Lin Shu?” Her voice carried a hint of hesitation. “It’s pretty late. Is something wrong?”

The moment she said my name, I felt an inexplicable sense of relief.
At least she was stable.

“I want to ask you something,” I said.
“If a person’s memory feels complete, but they find that they’ve written things they have no recollection of—what does that mean?”

There was a brief silence on the other end.

“That depends on the content,” she said. “Is it emotional, or factual?”

“Factual,” I replied. “And continuous.”

Her tone grew cautious. “How has your sleep been lately?”

“Fine.”

“Any distortion in your sense of time? Feeling like days stretch too long, or suddenly jumping forward?”

I looked down at the notebook.

“No,” I said.

That was true.
And that was the problem.

Zhou Wan sighed softly. “Lin Shu, where are you right now?”

“At home.”

“Then come see me tomorrow,” she said. “We should talk in person.”

I was about to agree when she added:

“There’s one more thing I need to confirm.”

“What is it?”

“Are you sure,” she said slowly, “that we’ve met before?”

The words slid into my nerves like a thin needle.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean,” she said carefully, “the symptoms you just described—we have discussed them before. Just not recently.”

I held my breath.

“When?”

There was silence again.

Then she said:

“In my records, the last time you came to me for similar issues was three years ago.
And after that session, you asked me to delete all consultation records related to you.”

I sat there, my hands and feet turning cold.

If she was telling the truth, then one thing was certain:

This wasn’t the first time.
And I had personally erased the evidence.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I reopened the notebook and found, on the very last page, a line written so forcefully it nearly tore through the paper:

“If she starts denying you, it means the ‘reset’ is almost complete.”

I looked up toward the window.

The city lights were still on. Everything looked perfectly normal.

Yet I was suddenly, absolutely certain—

Something was quietly wrapping things up.

And once again,
I was standing on the edge of being wiped clean.