Jack sits at the small wooden table, notebook open, pen poised. Silence surrounds him, but it barely registers; the world beyond these walls exists only as background noise. His eyes move with careful precision over the blank page, tracing the faint lines as though they themselves might reveal secrets. Each word, each number, each mark of ink carries weight, and he applies them deliberately, one after another.

Patterns form slowly across the pages. He records motions and decisions with the same unwavering detachment he has always had, noting every repetition, every deviation, every subtle twitch in behavior. Occasionally, the pen pauses mid-stroke as he tilts his head, considering whether a line belongs in one column or another. The quiet is comforting, a rhythm against the chaos that always lurks beyond the notebook.

Jack murmurs under his breath in flat, controlled tones, almost as if reading aloud from an invisible script. The words are observations, reminders, calculations—utterly devoid of dramatics or sentiment. Everything must be remembered. Every action, every error, every misstep, every fleeting choice is cataloged with meticulous accuracy. In his world, the notes are never wrong. They are fact. They are authority.

A faint scratch of the pen marks the passage of time. The room does not age, the air does not change; only the pages fill, expanding like a map of the town’s invisible currents. Jack leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to catch a movement, a shadow, a pattern others might miss. His presence is still, yet it carries weight. In these pages, in this quiet, Jack controls what must not be forgotten.