Breadcrumbs
You tear the apartment apart.
Under the mattress: nothing. Inside the coffee maker: nothing. Behind the bookshelf — wait.
A notebook. Moleskin, black cover, held shut with a rubber band. You've never seen it before. You open it.
The handwriting is yours.
Page one: If you're reading this, you've looped. The number depends on which version of you wrote this. I'm somewhere in the 400s. The notebook survives the reset because it's inside the wall behind the bookshelf, and whatever resets the day doesn't check there.
Page two: RULES (as far as I can tell):
- You always wake at 6:47. Always October 14th.
- Physical changes to the apartment sometimes persist. Sometimes not. The notebook has survived 200+ loops.
- Other people don't loop. They reset. Mrs. Reeves, the crossing guard, your coworkers — NPCs. They run the same script every day.
- The truck at Elm and 4th is not random. It's a kill switch. If you take that route, you die. Every time.
- The sky glitches. The parking lot empties. The radio speaks. These are seams. This reality has seams.
- There are layers. I've seen at least three. This one — the physical one — I'm calling Layer 5. Below it (or above it, or inside it) there's something else. I've glimpsed it in the mirror, in the glitches, in the moments when the rendering fails.
- I think we're supposed to go deeper, not escape.
Page three is a map of the apartment with X marks. Page four is a list of times when the sky glitches. Page five just says: THE MIRROR IS A DOOR.
The rest of the notebook is blank.