In a house with no end and no beginning, a nameless man awakens with nothing but a notebook and a hollowed mind. Each room is familiar but wrong — endless libraries filled with books he knows he wrote, but cannot remember writing. Each week, his memories slip away into oblivion, fragments of himself lost forever in the labyrinthine halls.

But the notebook fights back.
By recording his thoughts, he delays the inevitable erasure — for seven days at a time. Seven days to search. Seven days to remember.

As he delves into the endless tomes, he discovers tales of forgotten gods, shattered realms, and a figure named Light — a presence bound to the house and to his own unraveling identity. Each book draws him into strange, dreamlike worlds where he must relive lost histories and reclaim pieces of who he once was.

Yet fractures form.
Reality blurs. Shadows of a stark, sterile world bleed into the decaying grandeur of the House. Flickers of white-tiled floors, locked doors, and distant voices. Slowly, the truth claws its way back: he is not where he believes. He never was.

Trapped between an endless dream and a fractured mind, haunted by the thin line between madness and memory, he must confront the question he fears most:
What is real? And who is he?

The deeper he descends, the more dangerous the answer becomes.

I decided to dedicate today to understanding the books.


I gathered all the books that had writing inside, and there were more today than yesterday. The pages were filled with symbols I couldn't understand, their strange shapes twisting like vines.


 I spent hours staring at them, turning the pages back and forth, searching for meaning.


I don't understand why I can't read them. It's as though the language does not exist in my mind. I didn't know such things were even possible. How could there be other languages?


 I didn't know. But now I see it—feel it—a space I cannot reach, a door I cannot open.


I spent the second half of the day wandering the house, observing the growing number of doors that opened before me.


Some rooms have changed even more. One room seems to stretch longer than before, though I don't know how it could have done so. Another door had a handle shaped like an animal I had never seen.


Today, I divided my time between two tasks: studying the books and exploring the house.


The books still resist me. I recognize patterns in the symbols, repetitions that must mean something, but I cannot understand them. 


Not in the way a creature is, but like a tree, or a vast, shifting ecosystem. It grows, it breathes, it responds to me in ways I don't fully understand. Every door I open leads to a space that is both the same and different from what I expect. The rooms rearrange themselves.


 A hallway stretches longer than it was the day before. A staircase appears where there was none.


They were faint, barely visible in the dustless surface of the floor. But they were there. A trail leading from one of the newly opened doors into a deeper part of the house.


I followed them for a long time, twisting through the endless corridors, turning corners that led me to places I didn't recognize. And then, suddenly, they stopped.


But I know now—I am not the only one here.


Chapter 4 - chapter 4: The Language