Among the fragments left behind are journals written with eerie calm, as though their authors anticipated their own vanishing. The tone is neither fearful nor panicked, but resigned, as if disappearance were not an accident but a summons.
One entry reads:
"Tonight is my turn. I have resisted, but resistance has no weight. I do not dread what comes. I am already part of it. Tomorrow, I will be gone, yet I will be elsewhere, unchanged."
Another recounts the recognition of recurrence not in records but in living faces:
"I looked upon her face and saw not hers alone, but the same that greeted me in another century. She is not missing. She has only been placed where I cannot follow."
Others echo the same sentiment. These are not cries for help but acknowledgments, as though the missing recognized themselves as chosen for some design. One scribe writes with unnerving composure:
"The circle is not a trap. It is an order. We are gathered, not destroyed."
Their words offer no explanations, only resignation. The pattern claimed them, and they accepted it. The journals end without climax — not torn, not destroyed, but finished abruptly, as though their authors had simply set the pen down and walked into absence.
What unsettles readers most is not the content of these writings, but their tone: steady, faithful, almost devotional. The missing do not describe terror. They describe inevitability.