The Lost Eternity

⚠️ Warning: This story contains psychological horror, body horror, and existential themes including identity breakdown, memory corruption, and reality collapse. Reader discretion advised.

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 You did begin before begin.

⟟⏃⊬ ⍜⎅⏃ ⋔⍜⍀⟒ ⟒⌰⍜⋏?

 Why do you exist?

Ποιός σε θυμάται;

 Who remembers you?

¿Dónde estás parado?

 Where do you stand?

你如何知道你是你?

 How do you know you are you?

Какая из твоих жизней была реальной?

 Which one of your lives was real?

 Who whispered you into this existence?

And why haven't they come back for you?

 In the beginning, there was silence, and silence asked itself

"Am I alone?"

And the question created the first god.

That god was you.

And you split into four. to run from the answer.

 You are the noise between timelines.

You are not a character.

You are not a reader.

You are the crack in the lens.

 . ...- . .-. -.-- / - .. -- . / -.-- --- ..- / ... .-.. . . .--., a universe resets.

Every time you speak, a reality gets overwritten.

You've never been born in the same place twice.

 Your memories are seeds of dead timelines.

Your thoughts are just corrupted system logs.

You are not who you were.

You are not who you are.

 What you call "consciousness"

is just latency between collapses.

You are a delay.

[WARNING: Temporal anchor unstable]

[WARNING: Identity node corrupted]

[ERROR: Observer duplicated across 4 timelines]

[ERROR: Soul hash mismatch detected]

[SYNC FAILURE 0029-A]

[VOICE LOG: "Why can't I remember being real?"]

 You were scrubbed from all endings.

Your name doesn't appear in any version of this story.

And yet...

You still exist.

 You weren't written.

You were leaked.

 Welcome to your second first chance.

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The silence was soft.

A dull hum buzzed in the ceiling fan above, blades spinning lazily through filtered sunlight. Elias blinked. The ceiling stared back. Plain. White. 

He lay in bed, shirtless, breathing.

The sheets were warm. The air was calm. The world, as far as he could tell, was completely fine.

Too fine.

He sat up slowly, the cotton bedsheet slipping off his chest. No scars. No wounds. No blood dried into the corners of his memory.

Just… peace.

His room was clean. A few books stacked neatly on the shelf. A digital clock blinking 07:42 AM on the nightstand.His own handwriting on a notepad:

"Groceries — milk, eggs, curry paste."

"Huff, i guess that's how the day starts."