[RECOVERED AUDIO LOG — PROJECT TAGPUAN — UNKNOWN SOURCE — DATE CORRUPTED]
...static... hiss... a breath... then silence...
I don't know where I am.
I don't know when I am.
I woke up with a name on my tongue — Lumayon — like it was whispered to me by someone who's already gone.
The air smells like ozone and old rain.
The walls are cracked, but not from age — from time.
I saw a child yesterday. Gray hair. Blue eyes. Said, "You're late."
I asked, "Late for what?"
He smiled. "For remembering."
I don't remember anything before this room.
Before this voice.
Before the fracture.
I found a mirror.
My face… it's mine. But the eyes — they're older.
I touched my cheek. Felt the skin. Felt the weight of years I didn't live.
Then I blinked — and the mirror showed me younger.
Not by years. By decades.
I screamed.
The glass didn't shatter.
It rippled . Like water. Like time was… thin here.
I found a journal.
Not mine.
Written in a hand I don't recognize.
It says:
"Lumayon is the key. He doesn't know it yet. He remembers what never happened. He forgets what did. The fracture began when he was born — or maybe when he died. We don't know which came first."
I don't know who "we" is.
I don't know if I'm the key — or the lock.
Or the thing that broke it.
I found a door.
It wasn't locked.
It led to a hallway that didn't exist yesterday.
I walked.
The floor changed under my feet — wood to concrete to grass to… nothing.
I saw a woman.
She was crying.
She looked at me and said, "You're not supposed to be here."
I asked, "Where is here?"
She didn't answer.
She just faded. Like a memory that forgot itself.
I found a clock.
It was ticking backward.
I touched it.
It stopped.
Then it started again — but the hands were moving in circles.
Not forward. Not backward.
Sideways.
I think… I think time isn't broken.
I think it's alive.
And it's watching me.
I found a note.
Taped to the wall.
It says:
"If you're reading this — you're not the first. You won't be the last. The fracture isn't an accident. It's a test. And you're failing it."
I don't know who wrote it.
I don't know what test.
I don't know why I'm here.
But I remember something.
Not a memory.
A feeling.
Like I was born in a lab.
Like I was made to remember what no one else can.
Like I was meant to fix this.
Or maybe… to end it.
I found a name.
On a file.
Dr. Elise Mendoza.
Project Tagpuan.
I don't know who she is.
But she knows me.
Because in the file, under "Subject," it says:
"Lumayon — Temporal Anchor. Emotional Resonance: High. Memory Stability: Unstable. Risk Level: Critical."
I don't know what that means.
But I know this:
I'm not alone.
Someone's watching.
Someone's waiting.
Someone's lying.
I think I'm starting to remember.
But I don't know if I want to.
...static... a child's voice, whispering...
"You're going to destroy everything."
...silence... then a single, clear tone...
...end of log...
Then — I felt it.
A scent. Sharp. Clean. Like hospital sheets and burnt sugar.
My fingers twitched — like I'd held a scalpel before.
Not memory. Muscle memory.
Was I a doctor? A scientist? Or just the experiment?
I whispered her name — "Dr. Mendoza" —
and the walls pulsed.
Like a heartbeat.
A voice, not mine, echoed:
"She's not coming back."
I didn't ask who.
I already knew.
I closed my eyes.
And for a second — I saw it.
A white room.
A woman in a lab coat.
Her face blurred, but her voice was clear:
"Lumayon… you were never supposed to wake up."
I opened my eyes.
The journal was open again.
New page.
Same handwriting.
But the ink was wet.
"Subject is experiencing temporal bleed-through. Origin: self-generated. Warning: Do not trust your own mind. The fracture is inside you."
I laughed.
It sounded broken.
Then — the child appeared again.
Same gray hair. Same blue eyes.
But this time, he held a pocket watch.
Its hands spun wildly.
He smiled.
"You're going to destroy everything."
I reached for him.
He vanished.
But the watch stayed.
On the floor.
Ticking sideways.
I picked it up.
It was warm.
Like it had a pulse.
And then — I remembered.
Not a face.
Not a place.
But a sound.
A scream.
Mine.
From a long time ago.
Or maybe… from tomorrow.
I don't know what I am.
But I know this:
The fracture isn't in the world.
It's in me.
And I'm starting to crack.
...static... a child's voice, whispering...
"You're going to destroy everything."
...silence... then a single, clear tone...
...end of log...