He didn't tell the girl he was leaving.
He just walked.
Back up the stairwell, through the hallway that no longer had wallpaper. The air was denser now—each breath slightly harder to hold.
The swing.
He remembered the letter's words.
You left it under the swing.
He didn't remember doing it.
But his body moved like it did.
As he stepped out into the yard, the first thing he forgot was the shape of his old house.
He blinked, and the windows changed.
He blinked again, and the roof faded out of focus.
He kept walking.
The tree stood crooked near the edge of a field.
Its branches reached out like arms caught mid-fall.
The swing moved gently, though there was no wind.
The dirt beneath it was soft.
Familiar.
Another step.
He forgot what he had for breakfast.Then whether he'd eaten at all.Then what "breakfast" tasted like.
He reached into his pocket to double-check the letter.
But his pockets were empty.
Had they always been?
No—he had a note.
Didn't he?
His steps slowed.
Then he forgot the girl's name.
Wait.
Did she ever give him one?
Did she have one?
Did he?
By the time he reached the tree, his hands were trembling.
He looked down at the base of the trunk.
There was something there—maybe.
But he couldn't remember what he was looking for.
His name.His purpose.Why his chest hurt.
All of it was slipping through his fingers.
Like trying to hold water with broken hands.
He stepped back.
One foot. Then another.
His vision cleared slightly.
The world stopped blurring.
He turned, stumbled away from the tree, and walked fast—back through the field, through the wall of fog, until the swing was gone and the sky stopped pulsing.
He was back in his room.
Or… a room.
He didn't remember its shape, but the desk felt right beneath his fingers.
There was a pen.
And paper.
And—somehow—an envelope.
He didn't remember where it came from.
But it was there.
Waiting.
He sat.
And wrote.
The words came slowly. Not from memory. But from instinct.
From some place beneath forgetting.
If you're reading this, then the memory didn't hold.
That's okay. It was never meant to.
You're near the door now. Don't open it until you know what's buried.
The girl can't tell you. She doesn't remember either.
You left it under the swing. The one with the tree. You knew you'd forget. You were right.
You were always right to be afraid of that room.
But you went back anyway.
Because you're not supposed to leave it buried.
Not this time.
—You
He folded the paper.
Slipped it into the envelope.
Set it down on the table.
Looked at it for a long time.
Then stood.
Walked away.
And forgot it ever happened.