ENTRY FOR THE FIRST DAY.
I woke up in Darkness.
There was no sense of time. No walls, no air, no sound. I lay in nothingness, neither afraid nor at peace. Just waiting.
Then, Light.
It was not sudden, nor was it gentle. It simply arrived. I opened my eyes (though I do not remember closing them), and there it was, illuminating the space around me. A Room. Vast. Empty. Walls pale and seamless, stretching beyond sight.
Beside me, a Notebook.
I turned the pages with careful hands. They were old, yellowed at the edges. On the first page, in steady handwriting, was written:
Write down your memories. Each day, everything that happens. After the Seventh Day, you will forget.
The words sent a shiver through me. I did not remember writing them, and yet I believed them. I lifted the pen that rested atop the book and wrote:
Day One. I woke up in the dark. Then there was Light. There was a Notebook.
The moment I finished writing, something changed. A sound, quiet but distinct, like the soft shifting of stone.
I turned.
A Door.
It had not been there before. Now, it stood in the wall, dark and waiting. My heartbeat quickened.
I clutched the Notebook. If the words were true—if I was going to forget—then I had to trust them. I had to keep writing. And I had to go through the Door.
So I did.
The House
ENTRY FOR THE SECOND DAY?
I stepped through the Door.
On the other side was a hallway—long, quiet, lined with doors.
The walls were the same smooth, pale material as the first room, and just like before, there were no windows. No way to see outside.
I walked forward, my footsteps the only sound. Each door I passed was closed.
Some had numbers carved into them. Others were blank. I reached out, testing a handle. Locked.
I kept moving.
The hallway opened into a vast space—a room unlike the one I had woken up in. This one had furniture. A grand staircase led upward, its steps vanishing into shadow. There were chairs, a table, bookshelves filled with books.
I picked one up. The cover was blank. I flipped it open. Every page inside was empty.
I don't know why, but a chill ran through me.
I set the book down and turned my attention to the rest of the space. There was no dust, no sign of anyone else. Just the quiet stillness of a house waiting for something. For me?
I searched the rooms, opening doors where I could. Some led to bedrooms, others to halls that twisted and turned, leading me back to where I started. There were no windows. No exits.
It felt like I was inside a world that had been built only halfway—like something had started making it and then stopped, leaving it unfinished.
Eventually, I found a small room with a desk. The only thing inside was a single candle and a chair. I sat down, opened my notebook, and wrote:
Day Two. There is a house. Many rooms, no windows. Doors that lead back to where I started. Books with nothing inside. No people. No exit.
I closed the notebook and placed it on the desk.
I don't know what will happen tomorrow. But I will write. I have to.