The file flickers into existence with a soft chime. The header reads:
> [ARCHIVE RECOVERY // FRAGMENT 37 // ORIGIN: UNSPECIFIED]
Status: Corrupted
Subject: Domestic Memory Reconstruction
Playback Commencing...
---
It begins with dinner.
A round oak table. Three chairs. Steam curls from a pot roast. A glass of milk. The clink of silverware. The soft hum of an air conditioner struggling against a summer evening.
Across from me, my son smiles—missing teeth, freckles, eyes like my father's.
To my left, my wife passes the mashed potatoes. Her fingers graze mine. Her voice is warm. "You've been quiet today."
I try to respond, but the words tangle. They sound wrong. Warped.
"Just tired," I say. But the audio stutters. It loops.
> "Just tired. Just tired. Just... just..."
She tilts her head. Glitches. Her smile stretches too wide, her eyes slightly out of sync. My son laughs at a joke I didn't hear. The room is dimmer now.
---
Timestamp: +00:03:21
> Visual artifacts detected. Memory integrity: 63%
---
The house breathes.
Wallpaper peels and reattaches in pulses. The calendar on the wall reads Marchtember 42. A photo frame shows my graduation, then a funeral, then a child I don't recognize.
The roast is bleeding.
My son speaks, but the sound comes from the ceiling.
> "Why did you leave us?"
I blink. My wife is gone. Her chair faces the corner. My reflection in the milk is older than I am.
"Where's Mom?" I ask.
He doesn't answer.
Outside the window: darkness. Not night. Not absence. Just void.
---
Timestamp: +00:05:14
> Host consciousness destabilizing. Attempting contextual correction...
---
The scene resets.
Dinner again. Smiles. Familiar words.
But the walls are wrong. Too many windows. The forks are reversed. My wife is now my sister. My son has no mouth.
He draws something on his napkin. A circle with teeth.
"I remember," he says.
His voice is mine.
"I remember what came before."
The lights go out. The roast evaporates. The table sinks into the floor.
I reach for him, but my arm keeps stretching. Elongated. Liquid. Useless.
The scene collapses into static.
---
[Warning: Memory decay accelerating.]
[Do you wish to terminate playback?]
> NO
User override accepted. Continuing...]
---
I'm in a classroom now. Same voices. Different faces. A teacher draws stars on a chalkboard.
But there's only one name written: EARTH
A girl raises her hand. "What is Earth?"
The teacher stares at the board, confused. "It was... somewhere we were."
"Did we live there?"
The chalk snaps in half.
"No," he says. "We only think we did."
The window shows the stars again, spinning like teeth. The ceiling drips static.
---
Final Timestamp: +00:08:42
> Memory fragment deemed irreparable. Final message preserved:
> "We made a home out of forgetting. But something always remembers."
---
[ARCHIVE FRAGMENT 37 TERMINATED]