Fredrick Fitzell sat in the dim light of his apartment, the hum of the city outside fading into a dull roar. Behind him were stacks upon stacks of unopened boxes they were both too lazy and busy to unpack. He glanced at the scattered papers on his desk, notes from his latest research project spread like confetti around the remnants of last night’s takeout. His mind, however, was elsewhere—adrift in a fog of memories that felt both distant and unnervingly close.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he tried to push the thoughts aside. It was one of those late nights where the boundaries of reality blurred, a cocktail of exhaustion and caffeine swirling in his veins. He reached for the old cassette recorder he had kept from his college days, a relic he hadn’t used in years, and pressed the play button. The familiar crackle of the tape brought him a small comfort.

As he listened to the echoes of his past self discussing wild theories and dreams of the future, Fredrick felt a surge of nostalgia. But it was quickly eclipsed by a dark undercurrent—a memory of the last time he saw his friend, the night everything changed. The arguments, the desperation in her voice, the way the world had felt as if it was crumbling around them.

“Fred, you don’t understand! We can’t just forget what happened,” she had pleaded, eyes wide with fear.

Determined to make sense of it all, Fredrick grabbed a yellow notepad and started jotting down everything he could remember. Each word felt heavy with significance, a desperate attempt to unearth the truth. “Reality is not what it seems,” he wrote, echoing the words that had once inspired him.

"Fred?" A voice echos, a soft hand placed on his shoulder causing Fred to jump in his seat. He looked behind him, a beat of silence. "Sorry... I'll come back to bed, I just needed to..." He glanced back at the pad, completely filled with scribbles, "...Think." He looked back up, sheepish.