Caleb awoke suddenly from his sleep, a splitting headache piercing his skull like a chisel. The light in the room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the air carried the scent of melted wax mixed with old dust. For a few seconds, he didn't recognize the place. The bed was unfamiliar, the furniture different, and the silence unnaturally heavy.
He looked at his right hand and found himself holding a small cloth doll with distorted features: one black eye, and the other stitched with red thread in the shape of an "X." A shiver ran down his spine. He didn't remember where he got it, or even how he ended up in this bed.
He rose with difficulty and walked toward the window. Pulling the curtains open, he was greeted by a gray sky and gentle raindrops. The old Victorian city stretched before him like an abandoned painting. His heart pounded inexplicably.
Then he saw something strange.
On the walls of the room were children's drawings—done in blue, red, and black crayon. Innocent yet eerily precise scenes: a man standing before a burning stage. A woman falling from a high balcony. Caleb's own face staring into a cracked mirror… and the same doll, standing behind him.
He stepped closer and touched the drawings. They were real, etched with force. But who drew them? And how? He had only rented this room two days ago.
He turned quickly when he heard a rustling behind him. The doll had fallen from his hand—or… had it moved? He stared at it for a long time, then picked it up slowly.
"Who drew this?" he whispered to himself.
He stepped out into the inn's lounge, where the old owner, "Edmund," was sipping tea.
"Ah, Mr. Caleb, did you sleep well last night?" Edmund said in an odd tone.
Caleb frowned. "Last night? What day is it?"
"Monday. You arrived Sunday morning and told me you had a meeting that evening."
"What meeting?"
Edmund paused, then said calmly, "You told me you were meeting Inspector Douglas and Detective Anna at the opera house. You returned just after midnight. Have you forgotten?"
Caleb felt the ground slipping from beneath him. He didn't remember any of that.
"No… I didn't go to the opera… at least… I don't think I did."
"But you did, sir. You were even wearing this wet coat that reeked of smoke."
In a moment of panic, Caleb rushed to his bag. He found the coat—it was indeed wet and carried a faint scent of burning. His heart raced. Was he losing his mind?
Back in his room, he opened his notebook. Only one line was written in his handwriting:
> "At the opera house, the sky isn't the only thing burning."
He slammed the table with his fist. What madness was this? Was someone tampering with his memory?
Then he noticed something else: on the mirror, there was a faint mist, as if someone had just breathed near it. He approached, and suddenly, with no warning, a phrase appeared on the surface in jagged writing:
> "My memory… is better than yours."
He turned quickly. The doll was still on the floor, but closer now. He couldn't be sure… but it seemed closer.
Hours passed, and Caleb decided to meet Anna and Douglas. They looked confused when he denied going with them to the opera.
"Caleb… we spoke all night. We discussed the child we saw in the mirror, and said that Victor might not be entirely human!" Anna said.
"You were the one who suggested going back to the house and looking into Crawford's old records!" Douglas added.
But Caleb remembered none of it. To him, the last thing he recalled was returning to the room on Saturday night.
Back in his room, he searched every corner, and during his search, something small fell from the doll: a tiny piece of paper, folded dozens of times. He opened it and found a drawing of a small child, his face blurred, holding Caleb's hand while walking down a street full of dolls.
Beneath the drawing was written: "Do you remember me?"
That night, at exactly three in the morning, he heard a faint sound. He opened his eyes slowly and looked toward the corner of the room.
The doll was moving.
It wasn't walking like a human, but dragging itself slowly, crawling on its limbs, its eyes reflecting a faint red glow in the dark.
In a hoarse, broken voice, it whispered:
> "You… ate… a memory… that won't return."
Caleb leapt from the bed and switched on the lamp. The doll lay motionless.
But he swore—he swore it had moved.
The next morning, driven by an inner urge he couldn't explain, Caleb went to the opera house. There, among the dusty seats, he found something hidden beneath seat number 9.
An old journal… with hi
s initials on it.
And every page contained details of events he hadn't lived—yet.