My Diary

I’m officially in the Church of the Stream now.

They say God is under attack.
And apparently I’m the part of the solution that’s supposed to sweat.

Training. All day. No breaks, barely any water—just focus. All day.

I’m done.

I’ll write down what actually happened here in a few days.

Good night.

Aya said, “I still can’t believe what happened yesterday.”

“But you checked it. You saw it,” I said, faster than I needed to. “I’m not messing with you.”

Silence.

“Then why did you push me so hard?” I asked. “If you didn’t even believe in it?”

Aya looked away for a second. One blink—like she was annoyed this was going to have to be said out loud.

“Because I wanted to see if you could stick with it,” she said. “Not because of magic. Because of you.”

“And you didn’t think that…?”

“That something would happen,” she said, flat. Then, quieter: “I just thought you’d give up too fast.”

A few minutes later the car dropped us off in front of the church, then drifted away without a word.

“At midday the neon doesn’t look that aggressive,” I said.

Aya pulled a face. “Yeah. At night this place looks more like a club than a house of God.”

“You’ve been inside before?”

“Not inside,” she said. “But I pass by sometimes.”

I wished Kai was here. I was grateful I wasn’t alone—but since all of this had started with Kai, it felt wrong to take this step without him.

Well. Not much I could do about it.

We entered the church and moved forward slowly, quietly, as if we were afraid of whatever we might find. Two people sat on the very back benches. Other than that, we didn’t see anyone.

Just before the altar we heard voices from the back rooms. We moved closer.

“He’s doing it again,” a woman’s voice hissed.

“He’s a child,” Amari said calmly. “Let him have his little joys.”

“This is a holy place,” she snapped. “Can’t he draw on something else? Out on the square? Or on a tablet?”

“You know perfectly well we can’t just—”

Amari cut himself off.

He’d seen us.

The woman turned halfway toward us like she was offended. A strict look. Smooth movements. The kind of person who doesn’t just like rules—she needs them.

“So you like eavesdropping, huh?” she said.

I only lifted the linen cloth.

And I saw Amari’s face change. No smile. No “welcome.” Just that brief flicker in his eyes—like I’d said a word nobody says out loud in here.

“Rowana,” Amari said softly.

“No,” she said immediately. That wasn’t a no to me. That was a no to what it meant.

“Yes,” Amari said. Still calm. But this time with weight.

Rowana pressed her lips together. Then she turned away like she’d just lost.

About half an hour later we followed Amari through twisting corridors behind the main hall. The farther we went, the less it felt like a church. More like the body of a building. Back wall. In-between spaces.

“You know,” Amari said, “normally you’d have to demonstrate it live, my boy.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But it doesn’t work anymore.”

He kept walking. “We talked. And we believe you.”

“Because of… this?” I asked.

“Especially because,” he said, and we stopped, “no one fakes a half-clean linen cloth.”

He wasn’t wrong. Since yesterday it looked exactly the same—as if someone had put the pen down mid-sentence. Half clean, half old, and somehow the whole thing was a complete joke.

I scratched the back of my head. Aya grinned briefly. “I was surprised too. First by the process. And then by how suddenly it stopped.”

“You threw me off with your yelling,” I said.

“That wasn’t yelling,” Aya said dryly, “and you’ve had enough time since then to finish it.”

I let out a breath. “Didn’t work again.”

Yesterday, once her first shock wore off, Aya had snapped straight into Gatekeeper mode. She’d accused me of pulling a trick. Then she’d searched everything. My hands. The cloth. The apartment. She’d even held the fabric up against the light like the trick might be woven into it.

She found nothing.

And still—she didn’t really believe me. Not fully.

Amari stopped in front of a door that didn’t belong down here. Old. Wood. The flower symbol from the church—only here it didn’t feel decorative.

It felt like a seal.

He put his hand on the handle, hesitated, then said to Aya, “From here on, only him.”

Aya stepped forward. “Why?”

“From here on it’s members only. This is still a holy place,” he said.

“But he’s not part of the church,” she replied, pointing at me.

“Yes, he is,” Amari answered, and opened the door.

Aya opened her mouth—about to protest—then closed it again.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”

Cool air hit me. Not cold like outside. More like the kind of room where nothing is allowed to age.

I followed him.

We went down a wide spiral staircase. The footsteps echoed differently. Below, the corridors got darker. More tangled.

“So I finally get answers down here and find out what the hell is going on?” I asked—too hard.

Amari gave me a look that wasn’t strict or kind. Just tired. “Part of it, yes.”

We kept walking.

“What separates us from other religions?” he asked suddenly, as if we weren’t in a basement labyrinth under a neon church.

“No idea,” I said.

“The old religions had their anchors,” Amari said. “A person. A story. Something you could point at and say: there.”

He stopped at another door. Even older. The flower symbol again.

“And we…”

His hand settled on the handle.

“We have him.”

He opened it.

We stood at the entrance to a medium-sized vault, lit by orange neon bars. Benches. Columns. Ornamentation. An altar with the same pattern. And in front of it sat a small boy in a robe, his back to us.

He was drawing symbols on the floor with chalk.

Not childish scribbles. Shapes. Repetition. Symbols and strange marks—like the kind you picture when someone says summoning ritual.

“Hello, Arlo,” Amari called warmly. Almost fatherly. “I brought you someone. Reo will be with us for a while. Get to know each other.”

“Okay,” the boy said contentedly without turning around, and kept drawing.

I stepped closer.

“Are you here to take my chalk away too?” he asked, like he’d asked the question a thousand times.

“Why would I?” I said.

“Rowana doesn’t like it when I draw on the floor,” he said. “She says the floor is holy.”

I saw his smooth scalp. Then the earrings. Unusual for a boy, I thought.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I don’t care if you draw on the walls too.”

The boy giggled. “You’re funny.”

It went quiet for a moment.

Then he turned his head slightly and asked in a curious, child-serious tone, “But be honest. Did you do it?”

Only then did I see his eyes.

Milky. Pale. Like glass that never quite became transparent.

I froze.

“You mean the… linen cloth?” I asked, and crouched down.

“Yes.”

“I did it,” I said slowly. “At least halfway.”

The boy stared like a kid would.

“And you?” I asked. “What are you doing here? Can you tell me what that was? Why I’m here? Why I don’t remember anything?”

“I’m Arlo,” he said. “And I draw here.”

Then he kept drawing, and without changing his tone he added, “And you’re here to help God.”

He said it like a fact. Emotionless. Direct.

I had no idea what to say to that. My mouth chose sarcasm.

“And where do I find this God?”

“You’re really funny.” Arlo laughed briefly.
“You can’t just find her, dummy. She’s already here. In the bench. In the tile.” He tapped the chalk on the floor. “In this.”

I stared at him.

Up to this point I was… disappointed. It sounded like the kind of thing any random fanatic would say after lighting enough candles.

“Please tell me you have something that actually helps me,” I said—and I could hear how desperate it sounded.

Arlo paused. “Sorry,” he said. “I always listen. But she rarely speaks. And when she does, it’s very unclear.”

He tapped the chalk on the floor again. “But you can keep me company. And draw with me. Yeah?”

I exhaled.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to go.”

I stood up. With that kind of broken confidence that isn’t even sad anymore. Just empty.

Maybe he was stalling me. Maybe he really just wanted company.

I took a step.

Then Arlo said, without turning around, “She made it for you.”

I stopped.

“What?”

“This world,” he said calmly, “is only twenty days old.”

My stomach tightened. That was exactly how long it had been since Kai found me on the street. The boy couldn’t know that.

Or could he?

From Amari, maybe? Had I even told Amari the number that precisely?

It took me a second, but I pulled myself together.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I’ve met enough people who grew up here. People with childhood memories. People who talk about the dead. People who show photos. Records. Graves. History.” I heard myself, like I could force him back into reality with logic. “Your story doesn’t make sense.”

Arlo kept drawing.

“If you were created today,” he said, “with your soul, your past, and all your memories…”

A short pause.

“Would you notice you never lived?”

---

After that I went with Aya to a bar nearby. She wanted to know everything—and I wanted to drink everything.

I was sure Arlo was being kept hidden for a reason, and that it should stay that way. Aya had to swear she’d keep it to herself. I trust her Gatekeeper training—even if I apparently can’t keep my mouth shut.

But I didn’t sign a contract. I wasn’t properly warned about any bomb. And you have to talk to someone.

“You’re really sure?” I asked.

“Yes,” Aya said. “I want to know everything.”

“Everything everything?”

“Everything everything.”

So I told her about the boy in the church vault. The milky eyes. The chalk. And what he said.

Aya listened. Silent.

When I finished, she didn’t say anything. She just stood up.

“You’re leaving already?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

She was gone surprisingly fast.

Even though she was the one who’d wanted to know everything.

Good thing: I took a CityPilot home alone for the first time.

Bad thing: I’m supposed to move into the church tomorrow. Amari is expecting me. For “preparation.”

For what, exactly?

Postscript:
“You’re not real…”
If you can read this, God:
I’m an idiot.

Kai is out of the city for a few days. And I had plans with Aya.

“So this is your favorite coffee? CoffeeBox?” I asked.

“Yes. They have good coffee here,” she said.

“But isn’t this a chain? I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a bunch of them around the city.”

“That doesn’t make the coffee bad.”

I looked around. “No humans work here anymore.”

“Even better,” Aya replied, with a note of relief in her voice, and took her first sip.

I took my coffee from the service rover too, thanked it—mostly because I thought it was funny—and let it roll on.

As I watched it go, for a split second this stupid image popped into my head: a small, round robot. Blue. White. Friendly.

No name. No context.

At some point I asked Aya for her honest opinion about Carver. She said she didn’t know much about him—except that, according to the records, he’d been a very proper Gatekeeper. In a few operations, he’d apparently even served as team lead.

When I asked about Kai and Carver, she dodged it smoothly.

Fine. Maybe I just have to accept this whole secrecy thing for now.

Other than that, I get along with Aya absurdly well.

“Are you hungry?” she asked as our second drink was nearing the end.

“Always,” I said, then added, “Do you know a good place nearby?”

“More or less,” she said, with a mischievous grin.

About an hour later, we were standing in my kitchen with two grocery bags. Her idea was to cook ourselves.

“Twice the work and half as tasty—exactly my thing,” I commented.

“Don’t expect much,” Aya said. “I have an idea. That’s it.”

We threw everything together somehow. I made more mess than I helped.

After a few minutes she said, dryly, “Kai doesn’t like cooking with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a good cook.”

I stared at the battlefield of garlic and vegetables.

“I’m not exactly a benchmark.”

She shrugged. “You didn’t know what you were signing up for.”

“True.”

The food didn’t burn. That alone felt like a win.

We tasted it.

“Edible,” I said.

“That’s all I promised.”

I grinned. She did too. Briefly.

After we ate, she found the “used to be white” cloth in a corner. I’d had it in my hands more than once over the last few days, and at some point I must’ve just tossed it there.

“So this is it?” Aya asked, apparently remembering what I’d told her at the bar.

“Yeah. Kind of a gross little thing, isn’t it?” I said, trying to cover vulnerability with humor.

She sat down on my couch with the cloth and nodded for me to sit next to her.

“Go on. Try,” she said, and pressed the dirty cloth into my hands.

“Are you serious? I’ve tried this a thousand times.”

“And that’s why you’re just giving up?” she said, sharp. “Do you always do that? Then try it for the thousand-and-first time.”

It hit harder than she probably meant it to.

But she was right.

Carver didn’t promise me a solution. Kai’s contacts hadn’t produced any new leads—never had. And I’d almost started accepting my situation. Not in a I’ve made peace with it way. More like an I can’t change it, so I’ll just have to live with it way.

And giving up?

Yeah. Maybe I really am exactly the type for that.

“What are you still thinking about? Take it and do it,” Aya added.

I laid the cloth over both hands and focused. She watched me the whole time.

But nothing happened.

“You’re putting pressure on me,” I said, distracted by her constant stare. “Can you please look somewhere else?”

Aya took a sharp breath.

“Fine,” she said. “If that helps you focus again.”

I felt her gaze slide off me, and I gave the old linen my full attention again.

White. Fresh. Soft. Clean.

Words that ran through my mind. Concepts I tried to transfer.

Uselessly.

Just when I was about to give up again, a different approach occurred to me.

So I stopped imagining what the cloth should look like—and imagined the process of change.

Stains fading slowly from the outside in. Linen loosening in its woven structure, letting go of stiffness. A dirty tint draining out of the fabric. Everything that had happened to this cloth over time—only reversed.

And then it rustled. Very softly.

Aya blurted out, completely stunned: “WHAT. THE—”

Kai stopped by in the morning.

No message. One knock. Then he was standing in the doorway with two coffees.
He handed me one without asking.

“Coffee,” he said. “Don’t ask.”

I didn’t.

We stood in the kitchen for a moment, drinking. He looked around the apartment—quick and professional—like he couldn’t help it.

“I’ll be gone for a few days,” he said. Casual tone. Not casual content.
“Assignment outside the city.”

“Oh,” I said. “Bad one?”

He shrugged. “Crime’s been picking up lately. People are more nervous about their safety.”
He paused, then added, almost dismissively, “So no—nothing special. They just need some Keepers around to make everyone feel safe. Probably going to be super boring.”

He honestly sounded bored already.

“You’ll be fine here,” he added. “And if something breaks—don’t try to fix it, boy.”

“I wouldn’t even know how,” I said.

He smiled.

At the door he stopped, like he wanted to add something, then didn’t.

“Don’t disappear,” he said instead.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

He nodded once and left.

I finished the coffee alone.

It tasted normal.

That still counts as a good sign.

Aya didn’t come by today.

I stayed in the apartment and tried to act like it was mine—like the walls wouldn’t eventually remember who they belonged to.

I cleaned a little. Not because I’m disciplined, but because silence gets louder when there’s trash in it.

I kept thinking about what she said yesterday.

Max’s apartment.

I walked through the rooms twice, slow, like I might spot a ghost if I moved carefully enough. Nothing. Just empty furniture and that clean, filtered air that makes New Haven feel even less real.

Kai didn’t message either.

Aya said Max didn’t have any close relatives. When he died, the apartment went to Kai. That explains why it’s so bare. No photos. No personal things. Just space.

I don’t know if Kai cleared it out himself or if it was already like this. Either way, this is where I am now.

I’m grateful I can stay.

Thanks, Max.

It was already late morning when I was rung out of bed. Aya stood at the door.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, still feeling pretty wrecked.

“We’re meeting up. You texted me Saturday night. After that—nothing.”
She stepped inside and dropped onto the couch as naturally as if she’d already been here a few times.
“Then I called Kai. He said you were having quite a bit of fun on Saturday. I filled in the rest myself.”

She reached into her bag, called “Catch,” and tossed me a small pill.

“Electrolytes, a pick-me-up, and something for the nausea. This will have you feeling better fast.”

I took it without hesitation with a glass of water.

“Now go take a shower. You stink,” she said, opening the balcony door to let some fresh air in. The scene felt familiar.

We took a CityPilot toward downtown. I was surprised how quickly I actually started to feel better.

“Wow. I could’ve used that yesterday,” I said, mildly reproachful.

“Alcohol is still poison. If you insist on getting that wasted, I’m not going to support you on top of it.”

I didn’t like her answer, but she was right.

I hesitated, then said, “You didn’t seem too happy on Saturday. At Berta’s.”

Aya glanced at me. “Don’t get that wrong. That wasn’t about you, Reo.”

“Then what was it?”

“I just don’t like being volunteered.” A small pause. “Especially by Kai.”

I couldn’t help a small smile.

“So where are we going?” I asked, my energy noticeably back.

“We’re doing one of my favorite activities today.”
Her face lit up. “Stair climbing.”

My enthusiasm was limited.

We stopped in front of a massive, wide building—easily two hundred meters tall. I looked at her, alarmed.

She laughed. “Relax. Not those stairs.”

In the central elevator she pressed the top button labeled Roof, right next to 57.
After the longest elevator ride of my short life, we arrived at the rooftop terrace. A wide view over the city, plus a few neatly kept planters and patches of greenery. It was weirdly quiet—Aya said it was usually busier up here, but it was Monday and not lunch time yet. Most people were working. And then I saw it.

“An escalator. On a roof?”

And it wasn’t exactly small. Maybe twenty meters diagonally.

“Yeah! Pretty great, right?”

“That makes no sense at all. Where does it even lead? The sky?”

“You’ll see.”

A scanner demanded our WristChips—once for the rooftop area, once for the escalator. I didn’t see exactly what Aya selected, only that it wasn’t one of the cheaper options.

“Come on,” she said and stepped onto the escalator.

I followed. As soon as we were a few steps up, it started moving. Unfortunately, not in the pleasant direction.

“What? It’s broken!” I protested.

Aya laughed. “No. It’s supposed to do that. Training mode.”

The climb began. The escalator worked against us. A nasty piece of engineering.

The funniest part—at least for Aya—was that it adjusted to our speed. The faster we went, the more it tried to get rid of us.

It didn’t take long before I was out of breath. Aya didn’t stop. So I had no choice but to keep going.
Until I finally gasped, “Stop. That’s it. I can’t anymore.”

I was just about to drop onto the steps when Aya said, “Just a little more,” and winked at me.

I gathered the last of my strength. She was right. The escalator slowed down, and we reached the top—a small platform, invisible from below. Just big enough to rest. And, as I now realized, for this view.

“This is actually really cool up here,” I said once I could breathe again.

“Told you so,” Aya said, satisfied.

I looked at her. Then at the city.

“So what is this, exactly?”

“The escalator adapts to the runners,” she explained as she stepped back onto it.
“If you want to get up, it pushes you to your limit. Or you just jog a bit, talk, and enjoy the view.”

Her gaze drifted across New Haven.

“I know—it’s just algorithms,” she said thoughtfully.
“But sometimes it feels like it has an oddly good sense for my mood.”

I stayed up on the platform, recovering while she ran. We talked more deeply. Eventually, about Kai.

“Are you two together?” I asked.

“No,” Aya laughed. “But he’d definitely like that.”
After a short pause, she added, “We’re very close.”

(I thought of Kai. Drunk at Berta’s, he’d phrased it very differently. Maybe the two of them really should talk.)

“I don’t know what I’d do without him,” I said finally.
“And I don’t even know why he helps me.”

Aya tilted her head slightly. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Maximus.”

I shook my head.

“Max and Kai have known each other since childhood. They joined the Gatekeepers together. A few months ago, Max had an assignment at a defective reactor outside the city. He didn’t come back.”

I waited. She noticed and continued.

“Kai was originally scheduled for that job. It was supposed to be a simple assignment—security during repairs and startup, after rumors of sabotage and unrest. He swapped positions with a colleague who owed him a favor.”

“And how did Max die?”

“The reactor exploded during startup. A massive explosion. Over eighty people died.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Why did the reactor blow up?” I asked eventually.

“Unclear. A design flaw, they say. No one knows if it could have been prevented.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“I’m just damn glad Kai wasn’t there that day.”

The thought hit me harder than I expected. I didn’t know where I’d be without Kai.

And yet, one question remained.

Kai isn’t reckless. I could hardly imagine him blaming himself for not being there—if there was nothing he could have done anyway. Or does he actually think like that?

“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.
“I thought Gatekeepers weren’t allowed to talk about operations.”

“But not all of them. This was all over the news.”

“Hmm,” I murmured.

Aya stopped. So did the escalator. Her gaze stretched far out beyond the city, somewhere past the horizon.

“Max was his best friend,” she said quietly.
“And I think he’s helping you because he couldn’t help him. He’s been very withdrawn ever since.”

She looked at me.

“And there’s one more thing you should know.”

A short pause.

“You’re living in his apartment.”

I’m basically dead.
Emotionally. Physically.

No phone. No noise.

Pizza, cola, sriracha.
Old reliable—muscle memory, I guess.

I remember this feeling. Like an old acquaintance you haven’t seen in forever, and somehow you forgot how much you hated the guy.

I’m hungover.

I was supposed to meet Kai outside Berta’s, just around the corner.

“Best bar for a Saturday-night beer,” he’d said. “And one of the last places where only humans take orders. That’s your kind of thing.”

I don’t know if it was really for me or more for him. But getting out for once definitely won’t hurt.

We stood a little off to the side of the entrance. Berta’s had that kind of light that pretends everything is cozy—even when it’s cold outside. Inside: silhouettes, glasses, movement. Saturday night.

We were waiting for the friend he’d wanted to introduce me to on Wednesday already.

“Aya is very proud,” Kai said. Then he stopped, like he’d started too early, and tried again: “She had an… accident recently. Just don’t mention her arms or her cheek.”

“Why—what’s with them?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” Kai said. “But seriously, boy. Don’t ask.”

He fell quiet for a moment, like he was weighing how much he was allowed to say. Then: “Oh—and I didn’t tell her anything about your situation, by the way.”

“Why not?”

Kai shrugged. He was about to add something, but then he lifted his head. His gaze slid down the street like he’d picked up on something I couldn’t hear.

“There,” he said.

And when I looked, I saw her.

Aya was very attractive, but what hit first was her presence. The blue hair didn’t feel flashy—it just looked like it belonged to her. And you could tell immediately: she knows exactly where she’s going. Even the way she walked had something effortless about it.

And then I saw what Kai meant.

Her arms glowed blue—like an inner light under the skin, or a luminous tattoo. The same shimmer ran along her left cheek, irregular but clearly visible.

I felt my eyes wanting to latch onto it, and forced myself not to. Which was probably the exact moment it became most obvious.

Aya came closer, and Kai took half a step forward. He greeted her like someone he knew well—a tiny, casual attempt at a kiss on the cheek.

Aya turned her head away like she’d seen it coming.

“You can at least try,” Kai said with a broad grin.

Aya flicked him on the upper arm with two fingers. Not hard—just precise enough that Kai immediately rubbed the spot.

“You never learn,” she said.

“I learn,” Kai said. “Slowly.”

Aya gave me a quick look—not unfriendly, more routine. I held out my hand.

“Reo,” I said, and tried not to look like I’d just won a fight against my own eyes.

She took my hand. Firm. Calm.

Then she looked very deliberately at her own glowing spots, like she’d noticed me avoiding them.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Look.”

I blinked.

“You want to know more,” she added. Not accusing. More like a line she’d practiced.

“Yes,” I said.

Aya nodded toward the entrance. “Let’s go inside first.”

Inside it was warmer and louder. Glasses, laughter, people—small chaos that felt alive.

We sat at a small table. I slid onto the bench, Aya and Kai opposite me. Kai went to the bar to get the first round. While he was gone, I looked at Aya again—this time not forcing my gaze away, just… normal.

Aya noticed and the corner of her mouth barely twitched. “Better,” she said quietly.

“Okay,” I muttered.

She leaned back. “So. I had a bad accident recently. Parts of my body had to be replaced.” Calm. Almost cool.

“Can’t you… adjust the skin?” I asked carefully. “Pull it so it doesn’t show?”

Aya looked at me like she was weighing it.

“You can,” she said eventually. “If you want to hide it.”

There it was again—this small edge in her tone. No aggression. A boundary.

And I still didn’t get her: Kai had told me not to ask, but Aya wore her jacket in a way that made the shimmer more than visible.

Aya noticed that I wanted to ask more, and didn’t.

Kai came back, set three beers on the table, and sat down.

“What did I miss?” he asked.

“Reo survived not asking,” Aya said.

Kai grinned. “Strong.”

We talked about small stuff first. Berta’s. AR overlays. Things that were technically banal—and felt valuable for exactly that reason. Because they were normal.

When Aya went to the bathroom for a moment, it slipped out of me: “She’s… different than I expected. I can’t figure her out.”

Kai could tell what I meant without me saying it. He stared into his beer for a second.

“Don’t you know that feeling?” he asked then. “You just want to be yourself. Walk through life as you are.” He looked up. “That’s what Aya wants too.”

I waited.

“What she doesn’t want,” Kai continued, “are the questions. The questions that make you feel different. The ones that make you feel like you don’t belong.”

I hadn’t realized Kai could be that empathetic. Or maybe he only was with a few people.

“Aya’s accident was only a few weeks ago,” he said more quietly. “Since then she’s barely left the house. She doesn’t know how to deal with it yet.” Then he put a grin on top of it. “Therapy would help.” He laughed—more camouflage than anything. “But she’s way too proud for that.”

I nodded. Then, carefully: “What do you mean by… accident?”

Kai hesitated. “Listen, boy. There are things Gatekeepers have to stay quiet about. Some operations are part of that.” He looked at me hard. “She’ll feed you some story—and that’s her right. But you should at least know how things work for us sometimes.”

“So she’s with the Gatekeepers too?” I asked.

In that exact moment Aya came back, sat down like she’d never left. “The best, you might say,” she said with a small smile, and gave me a wink.

Kai grinned broadly. “But you don’t have to say it,” he added.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment—so familiar that I suddenly understood there was more than friendship there.

After that they told me a little more about the Gatekeepers—not like a lecture, more in passing. More military in the past, today more of a mix: operations, security, investigations. Aya clearly on the operations side, him more on the investigative side.

Kai couldn’t help himself. “She’s not just insanely skilled,” he said, and very deliberately didn’t look at her. “She’s smart too. Strategic. Always in control. And…” A short pause. “At twenty-two, the youngest instructor we’ve had in forever.”

“You’re sweet,” Aya said, “but I’m still not coming back. Not yet.”

Something had changed since her accident. Maybe fear. Maybe pride. Maybe both. I wasn’t going to dig deeper tonight.

And at some point, when the second beer was half gone, we landed on the next big topic.

My story.

I told it in full detail—practiced from telling Carver yesterday.

Aya listened. Not skeptical. Not annoyed. More… focused.

When I finished, there was a short silence. Aya looked at me.

“Outside already, I had this feeling something was off with you,” she said. “But… okay.”

Kai leaned in a little. “And?”

Aya raised a hand without looking at him. A clipped: wait.

Then she looked back at me. “You tell it too cleanly.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Like you’re listening to yourself while you talk,” she said. “Like you’re checking whether it sounds plausible.” She tapped the table once. “That’s what people do when they’re afraid of being laughed at.”

I didn’t know whether I felt caught—or understood.

“I’ll tell you what I believe,” she said calmly. “I don’t think you’re making this up out of boredom.” She barely lifted one shoulder. “And I don’t think you’re the type to put on a performance.”

“He’s more the type to sabotage himself,” Kai joked.

“Exactly,” Aya said, not taking her eyes off me. Then she got serious again. “Does that mean I’m buying ‘other world’? No.”

She paused. “But I am curious what’s actually going to come out of your situation.” The last part sounded honest.

Kai jumped on the silence immediately. “Perfect. I’m busy and he’s alone too much. Show him a bit of the city over the next few days. You’ve both got time right now.” He very deliberately didn’t look at Aya.

Aya’s gaze shifted slowly to him, but she didn’t let any emotion show. Then her eyes moved back to me and she said dryly, “Sure. Why not.”

Aya left shortly after that, and Kai seemed unusually motivated tonight. He convinced me to stay for one more beer.

Let’s see how the evening goes—so far… I’m having fun.

Kai had wanted to set up a meeting with one of his contacts, but after the drug lady, the wizard, and the church, I felt like it was time to start looking on my own. Not because I suddenly believed in miracles—just because I couldn’t stand sitting around anymore, waiting for someone else to solve my problem.

Online, I found a man named Nicholas Carver—private investigator. Great reviews, and he seems to solve most of his cases. That was probably the first reason Kai hated him immediately.

“Just another con artist with fake reviews. You can’t seriously be falling for that, boy,” Kai muttered—probably also because I’d rather trust the internet than him and his contacts.

“I don’t know why,” I said, “but I want to give him a chance.”

Kai snorted. “You’re just throwing your money out the window.”

Still, he came with me when we entered the narrow high-rise. He was genuinely suspicious—not just of the “top private investigator in the area” (according to the web), but probably of my condition too.

The building had barely more than a handful of tiny offices per floor—freelancers and self-employed people. But it was just as tall as the surrounding buildings, easily close to thirty floors. Thirty floors where nothing is produced that you could actually hold in your hands.

“He even has a secretary,” I said to Kai as we were shown into the waiting room.

Kai gave the reception area a quick once-over. “Show.”

Through the glass front of the waiting area, you could see people walking through Neon Cross Park—and right behind it, Neon Cross Hospital stretched across the skyline. A familiar sight.

“Mr. Carver will see you now,” the secretary said, and gestured us in.

A tall, well-trained man in his early forties was standing by the window when we came in, looking out at the same plaza we’d just been staring at. He turned around, walked over, and offered me his hand.

“Nicolas Carver,” he introduced himself with a short, confident smile. His handshake was firm, but not pushy. The kind you give when you have to sell trust—without it looking like a sale.

Then he turned to Kai.

Kai tried to avoid his eyes, but he couldn’t.

“Kai,” Carver said, like he’d just looked for the name in a drawer and found it. “I thought you’d be out on some assignment beyond the city by now.”

“Unfortunately not,” Kai grumbled.

Carver gave a crooked grin. No big performance, no loud laugh.

“Hello, Carver,” Kai said.

“I’ve told you so many times—just call me Nico.”

“So you two know each other?” I asked, looking at Kai, hoping for an explanation.

Carver answered like he always does—himself—but far less long-winded than I expected. “We used to be at the same place with the Gatekeepers.” He gave Kai a light, almost amused pat on the shoulder—not hard, more like an old habit. “Kai just isn’t big on old acquaintances.”

Kai didn’t react.

Carver gestured to the chairs in front of his heavy desk. “Sit. And tell it to me once, cleanly. No embellishments.”

We sat down. For the first minute Kai stayed quiet, like he was letting me go first—or like he was waiting to see whether Carver would drift into nonsense after the very first sentence.

So I told him. Waking up. The gaps. The fragment with the computer. The feeling that I’m not from here. New Haven. Neon Cross. WristChip. The church, the cloth, that one sentence: “You’re not it.”

Carver listened. Really listened. He barely interrupted. And when I finished, there wasn’t some grand speech right away.

Instead, he leaned forward, picked up a tablet and stylus from the desk, and took a few notes.

“You don’t have a name, a past, or any witnesses,” he said eventually. Calm. Almost dry. “And yet you still have an active WristChip profile, just like everyone else.”

Kai lifted his gaze. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

Carver nodded once. “Yes. That doesn’t make the story more believable.” He looked at me. “But it also doesn’t automatically make it worthless.”

I blinked. That wasn’t… much.

“And?” Kai asked. Not aggressive—more carefully irritated. “Can you help or not?”

Carver leaned back. “I can try to bring some order into it. That’s it.”

“That’s not an answer,” Kai said.

“It is,” Carver replied. “Because I’m not promising I’ll deliver him ‘the truth.’ I’m only promising I won’t turn it into a show.”

He looked at me. “You want results. I get that. But when you start with almost nothing, you don’t buy the solution—you buy time, and someone who won’t get tired of looking at the same things again and again.”

I noticed how my body reacted to one simple phrase: no show.

Maybe that was the point. Not hope. More like… relief. Someone who at least acts like this is a normal case—and not like I’m just a joke. That had been my biggest fear going into this search: not being taken seriously, being laughed at.

“What do you need?” I asked.

Carver tapped his stylus once against the tablet. “Everything you can say for sure. Every tiny detail. And patience.” He glanced at Kai. “And if you really think I’m a con artist, fine. Keep thinking that. But stop treating him like he’s already a lost cause at every step.”

Kai’s jaw tightened. For a second I thought he’d snap at him.

Instead he only said, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Carver nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

That was the moment I realized what the real point of this meeting was: not Carver. Kai. The fact that he was there even though he hated it. The fact that he’d come with me, even though he didn’t believe me.

And that it’s costing him more than he’d ever admit.

Carver and I finalized the job. No big talk. Numbers, conditions, a short confirmation. I had enough money—and just enough pride to spend it on one attempt.

As we left, Carver called after us: “I’ll reach out as soon as I have something. Don’t expect miracles. Just expect me to keep at it.”

In the CityPilot, I didn’t say, “I like him.” That would’ve been a lie.

Instead, I stared out the window and said, “I’m giving him a chance.”

Kai answered immediately, like a reflex: “Mistake.”

Then, after a short pause, he added quietly, “But better than nothing.”

I looked at him. He kept staring straight ahead.

“Why are you so suspicious? Did something happen between you two?” I asked.

Kai exhaled through his nose. “That’s a story for another time, boy.”

Europe. That was the continent I couldn’t think of yesterday.

I was in surprisingly good shape today—not “everything is okay” good, more like “my head is finally moving again” good.

I used the energy to tidy up the apartment and get rid of all the trash I’d scattered around over the last few days. Of course there’s a floor robot here, acting like it has dignity.

The apartment isn’t big. Maybe 40 square meters. Slightly run-down, sparsely furnished. Nothing personal. No photos, no sentimental keepsakes, no “someone lives here.”

Just the essentials: a couch and table, a probably old-fashioned flatscreen by this world’s standards, a bar table with stools, a simple closet with leftover clothes, and a bed that folds out of the wall.

The kitchen is a small KitchenPilot—an all-in-one cooking robot that spits out full meals with minimal input. Kai once said it probably cost his colleague a small fortune. And honestly: if his money isn’t in the apartment or the rest of the furniture, it’s probably in this thing.

I didn’t exactly “cook,” but at least I went grocery shopping on my own and didn’t get anything delivered. Grocery stores seem relatively rare here, but I found one nearby—and I could walk there.

I still don’t feel great about the idea of hopping into one of these hovering cars alone—or one of the other providers.

I expected a place like that to be full of workers or robots loading delivery machines. Surprise: it isn’t. My web search showed why: that would be way too big of an operation, and it happens in dedicated freight halls.

And the food?

Way better than I expected. The miso ramen with vegetables and egg had me the moment I smelled the broth.

Not a whole lot today. But it’s a start.

And for the record: I feel better today. Not happy. But not too bad either.

“You have to play the ninth one,” was the first thing Kai said when he walked in and saw what I was wasting my time on. “That one still had that nice old 2D look. You’d like it.”

“I don’t have to like everything just because it’s old to you,” I muttered.

But he was right. Cyber Fantasy in 2D honestly sounded excellent.

Kai let his eyes wander around his colleague’s apartment, got stuck on the fast-food leftovers, and slowly shook his head.

“Alright. Let’s go. Get in the shower, put something decent on, and then you’re coming with me.”

“Do I have to?” I asked, one last weak attempt at resistance.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “You stink, boy.”

I got up, grumpy, while Kai opened the window and let fresh air in. I’m surprised every time how clean the air is here—for a city this huge. Kai said smog used to be a real problem. Then at some point they pushed the filter tech so far that now it almost smells “normal.”

We were about to leave when Kai spotted the old, dirty cloth on the sideboard by the entrance.

“You can throw that thing out,” he said. “Or do I need to dispose of it for you, boy?”

“No,” I said. “I’m keeping it.”

Kai turned to me, eyebrow raised. “Why?”

“It’s symbolic of my life.”

“What are you trying to say? Dirty?”

“Used to be white.”

“But you don’t even remember your life.”

I shrugged. “Exactly.”

Kai sighed. He looked tired. But he let it go—and just walked off. I followed.

We took the CityPilot toward downtown. Luckily Kai didn’t force a conversation on me. Not even on the longer ride. From the way his eyes kept moving, I could tell he was half inside his AR overlay anyway. Maybe I should try that too sometime. Maybe not.

“I actually wanted to introduce you to a good friend today,” Kai said at some point. “But she apparently can’t.”

“Not in the mood to talk anyway,” I mumbled.

“Whatever,” he said. “Another time.”

After about thirty-five minutes, the CityPilot stopped. We got out in front of a large, market-like square, completely covered by a glass roof. Plain, clean, and still somehow artificial.

“This is one of my favorite places,” Kai said. “Glassline Market.”

“Not bad,” I said, dry.

“Your enthusiasm is knocking me over, boy,” he said, grinning crookedly.

The market was full of small shops: souvenirs, specialty stuff, and above all, food. Lots of stands, lots of smells, lots of fusion. Food is one of the few things that still feels almost fully intact in my head.

“There’s really a lot of choice here,” I said. And then, without thinking: “Especially a lot of… Asian stuff.”

The moment the word was out, my brain stumbled over something—and suddenly found purchase. Surprise, then a short stab of joy.

Continents.

I remembered that my world was somehow divided up like that. Not everything. No details. But the concept. Like a lost shelf bracket snapping back into place.

It’s absurd: I could remember Freud, but not how the world was even organized. And yet this word is here again. Asia. And something with… “E”?

Kai saw my face and smiled in his cool, understated way.

“I don’t know what ‘Asian’ means,” he said. “But you seem to have remembered something again. I’m glad. Does it help you?”

“No idea,” I said honestly. “But it’s… something.”

Later Kai told me New Haven is a megacity. The megacity. A relatively young planned city—so big that every single district would count as its own metropolis back in my world. I might not remember their names, but I remember the sense of scale: we didn’t have anything like this.

The planet underneath is apparently also called Earth, but nobody here seems to know words like “Asia.” And yeah: it feels like my memories… just with ten, twenty, maybe thirty years added on—and with the dictionary quietly thinned out on the side.

We passed an administrative building on the way, with screens and banners—election campaign season in our district. I didn’t pay much attention to his explanation of local politics.

On the way back, shortly before we reached home, I brought it up: that I have enough money to hire someone to help me look for answers.

Kai nodded. “I’ll set up a meeting,” he said.

I left the car.

Note to self:

• At some point, write more details about New Haven and this “Earth” here. And add a few pictures.

I started Cyber Fantasy XVI…

Kai still had to work today.

I finished Cyber Fantasy XV. And now I’m sitting here realizing: distraction only works while it’s running.

Tomorrow I have to do something. Something real.

Kai has to work. And I’ve practically locked myself in.

I’m sitting on the couch playing on the PlayBox he left behind, some game called Cyber Fantasy XV. I know: new world, new city, everything exciting. I also know most people would go out now and look at everything—or at least pretend they’re that kind of person.

Kai would definitely be that kind of person.

For me, it’s different: I don’t belong here. And I don’t want to be here.

Distraction isn’t a solution. But right now there doesn’t seem to be a solution at all. And honestly, it feels like I probably used to react to hard situations the exact same way: retreat, screen, disappear. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not hiding it either.

The upside is: if I really wanted to, I could bury myself in here for years with my money. You can get anything delivered. And if you pay extra for a delivery drone, the pizza even lands directly on the balcony—warm, perfect. Like someone decided comfort food is a basic utility.

Notes to self:

• You have enough money to put someone on your problem.
• Once you have the energy, take a few pictures of the apartment and write some words. Just for memory.

“Church??” That was my first question when Kai told me where we were going next.

It was the third and final stop—right after the drug lady and the wizard, both of whom had claimed they were from another planet and could definitely help someone like me.

“This isn’t just any church, boy. They do a damn good job,” Kai said. Probably to give me hope. Or to convince himself this wouldn’t be a waste of time again.

I pulled out the old smartphone Kai gave me. Most people here walk around with glasses or AR lenses and stay connected 24/7. Phones still exist—but they’re kind of like fax machines. Technically around, but mildly embarrassing.

I looked up the church using a search app.

“They don’t even seem to represent a real religion,” I muttered. “This looks more like a cult. Fanatics, weirdos… and those weren’t even the worst reviews. There are a lot of people who have nothing nice to say.”

Kai didn’t answer right away. Probably because he knew I was right.

“Didn’t you say someone told you they could help me?” I asked. “I hope your info is better than the last ones. The drug lady almost bit me. B-I-T.”

Kai didn’t even blink. “Maybe a few fanatics and weirdos are exactly what a lunatic like you needs right now.”

Kai, the motivational coach.

“Thank you for traveling with CityPilot,” the floating car said almost the exact moment it stopped.

A church stood at the end of a large, bleak square. And it was… bright. Not warm-bright. Neon-bright.

“That’s a bit more neon than I expected,” Kai said as we got out.

“Must be the neon-modern architectural style,” I said, trying not to twist my face, staring straight at the building.

Kai turned his head toward me. “Wow. Bad joke.” He couldn’t help a small grin. “You’re thawing out after all, boy.”

Inside, it was surprisingly plain. Quiet. Stone. Wood. And of course a few orange neon tubes. High up on the back wall sat a large, flower-shaped window.

At the entrance stood an older priest. Bald head, neat white beard. A friendly-looking face—but his eyes were more… measuring than welcoming.

“Welcome to the Church of the Stream,” he said in a pleasant, almost rehearsed tone. “I’m Amari.”

“I called earlier,” Kai said.

“Ah, yes,” Amari replied.

Then he looked at me. “Is this him?”

“Yes,” Kai said. “This is him.”

Amari studied me. “So you claim you’re from another world, my boy?”

Kai grinned—because boy.

I felt myself heating up immediately.

“I don’t remember my life,” I said. “But I remember enough to know that cars don’t drive themselves everywhere, that people don’t have chips implanted in their wrists, and that our churches aren’t lit up with damn neon.”

I took a breath. “So no. I’m not claiming I’m from another world. I am!”

Amari lifted a hand briefly. Not defensive—more like someone who’d heard this many times before.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just asking,” he said. Then he turned around. “Follow me.”

We walked up toward the altar. Amari opened a small chest and pulled out a cloth. It had once been white. Now it wasn’t even “cream.” More like “used to be white.”

He held it out to me. “Imagine it’s new. White. Untouched.”

I looked at him. “And then?”

“Then try,” he said. That was it.

I looked at Kai. Kai shrugged.

So I stared at the cloth and actually tried. I imagined the linen the way it must have been once—smooth, fresh, bright. I held the thought longer than I wanted to.

Nothing happened.

Amari waited a few seconds. Then he asked, “Tried?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m doing it.”

A few more seconds. Then Amari lowered the cloth and said, completely flat:

“You’re not it.”

I blinked. “What does that mean?”

“You’re not it,” he repeated, as if that was a full explanation.

I felt the floor tilt just a little—and before I could even react, Kai stepped forward.

Not loud. But sharp.

“That’s it?” Kai asked. “One sentence? ‘You’re not it’?”

Amari stayed calm. “I didn’t mean to be harsh. But not everyone finds answers to their questions here.”

“Those weren’t answers,” Kai said. “That was dismissal.”

Amari sighed quietly, like he was tired. “I’m sorry. We do this test with everyone. You wouldn’t believe how many people come here every week absolutely convinced. Recently someone even almost bit me.”

Kai snapped at Amari, “Still. He just told you what he’s going through. You call yourselves a church—then act like one.”

Kai stared at Amari for a few seconds, judgment in his eyes. Then he turned to me.

“Come. We’re leaving.”

Amari held the cloth out again, maybe out of guilt. “Take it, if you want.”

Kai snorted. “Keep it.”

I hesitated. And took it anyway.

In the CityPilot, Kai said at some point, “At first I actually liked the old man.”

“You only liked him because he called me ‘boy.’”

“That’s just obvious wisdom and greatness.”

I stared out the window and barely registered the city.

Kai noticed. “I liked your little outburst back there,” he said. “I’m guessing you’re moving out of the sadness phase and into anger. I know this isn’t easy, but—”

“Not easy?!” I cut him off. “I’m in a damn other world I don’t belong in! I don’t remember my life, who I was, whether I had friends, family—anything! I can’t even tell you if I had anyone at all!”

I took a breath, too fast. “So yes. This could look a lot better right now. And thanks, but spare me your analysis, Freud!”

Kai narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He stared out the window. Violent silence.

Then he turned back to me. “Who is Freud?”

For a moment my body didn’t know what to do.

It chose laughing. Not super happy. More desperate. But real.

Kai shook his head. “I was going to show you a bit more of the city,” he said, “but I have a better idea.”

Later we were back in the small apartment that’s apparently “mine” right now. Kai had somehow dug up an old gaming console and a six-pack of beer.

We spent the rest of Sunday like that.

I don’t know what I would’ve done this evening if I’d been alone.

I still can’t remember anything. And I’m sick of writing that down every single day.

It was already evening when Kai walked into my room and immediately said, “I see you’ve already packed, boy.”

I was still sitting there in my hospital gown, just staring at him.

“Joke,” he said. “You’re probably the wealthiest young man with no possessions…” He paused. “Or at least no memory of them.”

Then he shoved clothes into my arms: a black hoodie, olive-green pants, black high-top sneakers, socks, underwear.

“More or less how we found you,” he said. “Should fit. Your other stuff wasn’t exactly in great shape.”

I put everything on and looked down at myself. “The hoodie’s a bit too big.”

Kai grinned. “Don’t joke, boy. Your old one was just as oversized.”

Not long after, we were outside. I paid with the WristChip for the first time. For a second I genuinely expected the scanner to pinch me or something. No idea why. Of course it didn’t. Still, I felt relieved.

A floating self-driving car was waiting in front of the hospital. I don’t know much about cars, but that was definitely not one of the expensive ones. Not one of the expensive floating ones, at least—whatever those are supposed to cost.

We got in. Kai gave an address: 172 Old Canal Road. The car confirmed it and pulled away.

“Listen,” Kai said, “the doctors only let you go because your vitals are stable, they can’t do anything else for you right now, and because I assured them I’d keep an eye on you.”

I nodded.

We drove through the streets, past objectively fascinating things—sidewalk rovers, autonomous shuttles, little machines surprisingly quietly doing their jobs. I just wasn’t in the mood to let myself be fascinated.

At some point Kai glanced at my notebook while I was scribbling in it.

“What are you even writing down? And why the hell are you doing it analog?”

I told him about the nurse who’d given me the notebook.

“Did she at least drop you her contact?”

My head hasn’t been reliable lately, so I actually flipped through the pages—like her contact info might suddenly appear between them.

“No. Unfortunately not. And I haven’t seen her again either.”

“Shame,” Kai said. And that sounded… genuinely honest.

When we arrived, the car said, “Thank you for traveling with CityPilot.”

The street was quieter. Not downtown.

“Not the best area,” Kai said, “but a friend of mine is overseas for an indefinite amount of time. He’s fine with you staying here for a while.”

Then he added, “And I don’t live too far from here either.”

He walked me to the front door.

“Chip.”

I looked at him. “What?”

“Your wrist. I had your chip data and already granted you access. Don’t ask, just do it.”

I held my wrist up. The door unlocked.

For a city this futuristic, the building looked surprisingly run-down. Like an older high-rise that never really got the upgrades.

We took the elevator up to the 20th floor. Apartment 20E.

Kai pointed at another scanner.

“Eye.”

I gave him the same look I’ve been giving him for days now.

“Yeah,” he said, like he could read my thoughts. “We scanned your iris too, so I just added it to the registry. Not exactly the warm, formal way of doing things, I know. But you don’t look like someone who’ll sue me for trying to help. And besides…” His mouth twitched. “I don’t know how far a crazy person gets in court.”

Then he looked at me and added, “So. Don’t ask. Just do it, boy.”

I leaned into the scanner, and the lock clicked open.

Kai lingered in the hallway for a moment.

“Number one: my colleague letting you stay here on short notice is a pretty generous move. So don’t mess it up. Number two: I’m picking you up tomorrow around early noon. Then we’re heading out.”

“You still haven’t told me where exactly we’re going.”

Kai was already walking away, waving with his arm raised. “Don’t ruin your surprise, boy.”

And then I was alone. In a city that isn’t mine. In an apartment that isn’t mine.

The doctors want to keep me here for one more day, even though I feel completely fine again. Apparently I was in that half-coma for too long to just let me walk out.

And honestly: where would I even go?

Kai stopped by later. Briefly, as always. He said they’re basically only keeping me here longer because I’m supposedly very wealthy.

“What? I thought my costs would be covered by some kind of social system. Where did I even get that money?!” I snapped.

He just shrugged. “Can’t tell you. But your wrist got scanned when you came in, and compared to most people… you’re doing pretty well.”

“How well are we talking?”

“It’ll be enough for now.”

Then he added, like he couldn’t resist: “And your Chip is also a big reason why I don’t buy your ‘other world’ story. I’ve been to the most remote corners. No one with a WristChip comes from outside New Haven—at least not on the record.”

His visit wasn’t long, but I’m still glad he showed up at all.

He said he can arrange a place for me to stay temporarily—if I want. And that he’s already been asking around. He still thinks I’m a nutcase. But apparently a contact of his gave him a few leads, and those might actually come with some answers.

I asked him why he’s helping me at all.

He only said, “Same reason I became a Gatekeeper: I just like seeing people smile.” And he grinned so sarcastically it almost felt honest.

I can tell that’s not the real reason. But I also don’t feel like pushing him about it.

Tonight I finally had some energy again. Like my body remembered how to function even if my head doesn’t.

I walked around the hospital a bit. Not far—just enough to feel like I wasn’t trapped in that room.

I noticed people here don’t “use” vending machines. They talk to them. Like ordering from a person. And when they pay, they don’t pull out cash or a card—they just hold out their wrist.

I stood there for a second, watching it happen, thinking: okay. Sure. Why not. Of course that’s how it works here.

Later I found my way up to the rooftop terrace. I don’t even know why. Something in me just wanted air.

I leaned on the railing and looked out over the city. Floating cars. Blinking drones. Neon lines in the distance. New Haven, stretched out like it didn’t care that I was suddenly inside it.

And for the first time, I actually thought about home. Wherever that was. Not in a vague way—more like a punch.

Does anyone miss me? Would anyone even notice I’m gone?

The loneliness hit so fast it almost felt embarrassing. I couldn’t hold back the tears.

I still don’t know if I’m losing my mind… but I couldn’t help thinking one thing was funny: I can feel melancholic without remembering a single detail of the life I’m supposedly missing.

Then I got this sudden urge to smoke. Out of nowhere.

If I used to smoke, this would be a good moment to stop. On the other hand… it might be a better moment to start now.

I actually smiled for a second. Alone on a rooftop. In a world that isn’t mine.

No. I still can’t remember anything.

Today was the first time I actually felt awake enough to talk like a normal person. The Gatekeeper showed up again—the one who found me and has apparently been checking in for days. On duty he’s Gatekeeper Adler. But somewhere later in the middle of the conversation, he told me I could call him Kai.

Gatekeeper. From what I can tell, that’s basically some kind of special police unit. He doesn’t look like a nurse, and he definitely doesn’t talk like one either.

He told me they found me out in the city. No signs of a violent assault. No obvious explanation. And yes—before I could even ask—this place is called New Haven.

I asked him what date it is.

“January 13th, 2026.” He paused. “According to the system, your name is Reo Lenz and you are 21. But we didn’t get much more than that. Do you remember anything at all?”

I told him the truth. Or what feels like the truth: that I’m not from here. That none of this makes sense. That this world is too advanced—just look at the hospital tech, look at the buildings. I literally saw a robot pass by while I was barely awake.

And I still don’t remember anything about myself, except that one fragment where a computer… pulled me in.

Kai stared at me for a second, like he was deciding whether to argue or not.

“Get some sleep, boy,” he said. “You’re exhausted.”

Then he left. Short visit. He said he’d come back again.

Were my questions answered? Definitely not.

But part of me still thinks: maybe if I wake up tomorrow, everything will be normal again.

I don’t remember my past life.

I’m sleeping almost all the time in this hospital. And when I’m awake, there’s… nothing. No names, no faces, no story. No events I can hold on to.

Some words and concepts are still there, as if someone mostly erased my life. Only one real short fragment remains: a computer—and then, like it pulled me in. I know how that sounds. But that’s the only thing that stuck.

Looking out the window doesn’t help either. Lights everywhere. Neon. And the equipment in here doesn’t just look modern—it looks completely different. Too advanced. Like I woke up in a future that isn’t mine.

I’m exhausted, but the panic is still there. I was just about to get up and run when a young nurse came in to check on me. Somehow she got me to breathe again. She sat down next to me like she had time, even if she probably didn’t.

I told her I barely have any memories. Basically none. Not even my name. But I’m sure this isn’t my Earth—and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.

She calmed me down again, glanced at the band around my wrist, then looked back at me.

“Reo,” she said carefully. “It says Reo Lenz. If that’s actually true… unusual name.”

She said someone had already come by today to see me. Maybe that person could answer some of my questions. Then she added she’d spoken to the doctor in charge.

“Apparently, even when you were half-awake earlier, you were already convinced you were from another world,” she said. “But your results are unremarkable. No structural damage. No indications of trauma.”

I knew immediately what that meant: no one here can help me right now.

She saw my face, told me to wait a moment, and left the room.

A few minutes later, she came back with a pen and a notebook.

“I had to search forever for this,” she said, and pressed it into my hands.

On the cover, she’d quickly written: My Diary.

“Maybe it won’t help you remember everything,” she said, “but it’ll help you not forget again… And honestly, I think you’re exactly the type for something this old-fashioned.”

She had to get back to work. On her way out, she turned around once more and smiled.

Her name is Darla.

So this is how it started… in a foreign city, on wet, cold asphalt.

I have no idea how I ended up there. From the three seconds I was conscious, only one real memory is left: a man kneeling on the ground.

I’ll never forget his quiet confidence—the kind that makes you feel safe.

And at the same time, I remember, I had this strange feeling I knew him from somewhere. Like my brain was trying to recognise something familiar.