It started with a photograph.
On my fridge.
Pinned beneath a black magnet shaped like a key.
I don't own magnets.
I don't own that photograph.
And I don't know the people in it.
A group of five.
All smiling.
Standing in front of the apartment building, just outside the main doors.
Three men. Two women.
One of them is holding the lease agreement—the exact same scroll I signed.
And in the center, right between them, is me.
Smiling.
Like I belonged.
I stared at it for an hour.
Every detail was correct.
The shoes I wore last week.
The jacket I haven't bought yet.
The way I always tilt my head in photos.
But I don't remember taking it.
Or meeting any of those people.
Or being outside the building with anyone at all.
When I turned the photo over, a message was written on the back.
In thick, black ink:
"Graduating Class – 0th Floor ResidencyYear: Continuity Fold 7Location: Cycle 3, Loop 2"
I tore the photo up.
Flushed the pieces.
An hour later, it was back.
Pinned on the fridge again.
This time, the message had changed:
"You're the only one who still forgets."
That night, the apartment began humming.
A low, metallic vibration—like something large was shifting deep within the building's bones.
My mirror didn't fog.
This time it filled.
With text.
Tiny lines of script—flickering, rearranging, like it was writing a history in real time.
Names.
Dates.
Events.
And at the top:
"Building Archive: Resident Log – Elias Cross"
I reached out and touched the glass.
One log opened:
"March 17th: Elias re-signs extension for 0BNotes: Asks again about leaving.Memory suppression reset.Personality shard 03 removed."
"March 18th: Dream initiated. Encounter with duplicate.Notes: Confusion increases retention rate. Recommend loop restart."
I stumbled back.
The mirror cleared.
But my phone now buzzed with a new app I didn't install:
"MEM: Building Memory Center"
The icon was a door with an eye at its center.
I tapped it.
It opened to a logbook interface.
My name listed at the top.
And below it:
"Recordings Available: 71"
I clicked one.
It played a video.
Grainy footage of me sitting on the couch.
Crying.
Saying, "I miss them. I'll stay. Just let me keep the memories."
Then static.
Then another video: me arguing with someone in the hallway.
I screamed: "You said I had a choice!"
The other person looked like me—but older.
Colder.
I closed the app.
Uninstalled it.
Then threw my phone across the room.
Five minutes later, it vibrated.
The app was reinstalled.
Now with 72 recordings.
I called out into the room.
"Who's doing this? Why are you showing me this?"
The floor vibrated.
Then a whisper, like from the walls:
"You asked to remember.You asked to stay.We are only complying."
The window now had blinds I didn't own.
When I pulled them back, the outside world was different.
Endless filing cabinets stretched into the horizon.
Each labeled with a name.
Some familiar.
Some mine.
Some not.
A small sign on the glass read:
"Department of Internal Continuity – Branch 0B"
The closet door opened on its own.
Inside: shelves.
Stacked with notebooks.
Each labeled with dates.
Inside each: entries in my handwriting.
But I hadn't written them.
One said:
"April 6th: Remembered the mirror loop too early. Adjusted lighting cues to delay.Elias seems stable.Loop integrity at 87%."
Another:
"April 8th: Introduced photo to test resistance.Result: confusion and denial.Reintroduction planned for April 12."
I sank to the floor.
Tried to breathe.
Tried to find anything real.
Tried to find me.
Then a voice echoed—different than before.
From inside the apartment.
Gentler.
Almost… mine.
"If you can read this, then you're outside me.If you're outside me, I've failed.But if you're still reading… there's hope."
I turned.
The wall had opened.
A panel I never noticed.
Inside: a tape recorder.
Already playing.
My voice again:
"You've done this 12 times, Elias.Every time you beg to remember, and every time you forget.But now the building remembers for you.That's the price of permanence."
"The only way out is through the contract.Not around it. Not by breaking it.But by fulfilling what it really wants."
Silence.
Then one last phrase:
"You are not the tenant.You are the archive."
I stood up.
Walked to the mirror.
Spoke clearly:
"What is the contract?"
The mirror didn't fog.
This time it became transparent.
And behind it, I saw myself again.
Older.
Eyes full of memories I hadn't lived.
And on the wall behind him: a single word carved in.
"Caretaker."