He didn't know where the words were coming from.
They poured out of him, frantic and final, like something was trying to be remembered through his hands. The room—or whatever it was—breathed around him. Sometimes it had walls. Sometimes it didn't. The desk stayed in place, even when the floor shifted like paper.
He wrote as fast as he could.
The first line came like a whisper in someone else's voice.
By the time you read this, it'll be too late. But you won't remember that either.
He didn't pause.
He couldn't.
You will forget this story. That's how it protects you.
His hand trembled.
Something behind his eyes was unraveling. A part of him that used to know why this mattered.
But the words kept coming.
Don't look for me. Don't try to find the beginning. Just keep moving forward. That's the only way you'll reach the end.
He stared at the last sentence. Let it sit. Let it echo.
Then he folded the page.
Slipped it into the envelope.
Left it on the desk.
He didn't sign it.
Didn't need to.
Somewhere, somewhen, he would find it again.
And forget.