ENTRY FOR THE SEVENTH DAY.
I do not want to believe it.
The words in the Notebook say that I will forget. That tomorrow, I will wake up with no memory of this place, of these days, of myself. I will be as I was on the First Day: empty, unknowing, a mind without history.
But how can I believe this? How can I know it is true?
I pace the halls, my steps restless and uneven. The House is quiet. The lights are dimming again, as they do now, as they always do. The doors remain open where I left them. The books with the strange symbols still sit in their places.
If I do forget, I will need proof.
I return to the desk where the Notebook waits for me. The pages are filled with my writing, my past self speaking to me, though I do not yet know if I will hear him.
I take a blank page and write:
If you are reading this, you have forgotten. But you have been here before. You have lived through these days. The House changes. You must trust the Notebook. You must write. You must remember.
The words unsettle me. I feel as though I am sealing something away, locking a part of myself inside these pages. If I am right, the person who wakes up tomorrow will not be me, not truly. He will be a version of me without my thoughts, my fears, my understanding.
I try to picture him—this future self. Will he trust me? Will he believe the words I have written?
I close the Notebook and place it beside where I sleep.
Then, I wait.
I do not know how it happens. There is no moment of forgetting, no sense of fading. One moment I am awake, my mind full of thoughts and questions. The next, I am—
I wake up in Darkness.
There is no sense of time. No walls, no air, no sound. I lie in nothingness, neither afraid nor at peace. Just waiting.
Then, Light.
It is not sudden, nor is it gentle. It simply arrives. I open my eyes (though I do not remember closing them), and there it is, illuminating the space around me. A Room. Vast. Empty. Walls pale and seamless, stretching beyond sight.
Beside me, a Notebook.
I do not know why, but my hands tremble as I pick it up. The pages are old, yellowed at the edges. There is writing inside. The first words catch my eye:
If you are reading this, you have forgotten. But you have been here before. You have lived through these days. The House changes. You must trust the Notebook. You must write. You must remember.
A strange feeling moves through me. I do not recognize these words, and yet, they are mine.
I turn the page.
There is more.