Elior woke up with a sense of purpose he had not felt before. The dull light filtered through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the floor, and he felt the weight of the day pressing against him. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he did not lie there wondering what would happen. Instead, he got up deliberately, feeling the cool floor under his bare feet and the solidness of the bed frame behind him. He moved with care, every step measured, conscious of every sound, every movement. Today, memory alone would not save him. Memory could be stolen, warped, or ignored. Today, he would create permanence.
He went straight to his desk and opened the notebook. The words from the previous day stared back at him. Memory can be altered. He traced the letters with his finger, feeling the indentation of the pen in the paper. That single rule had changed everything. He understood that the mind was no longer trustworthy and that he could be guided into danger by his own thoughts without realizing it. He took a deep breath and set the notebook aside. Memory alone could not be his anchor. He needed evidence. He needed records that could not lie.
He gathered his small collection of recording devices, old smartphones, a compact camera, and a voice recorder. Each item felt heavy in his hands, not in weight but in responsibility. These tools would become extensions of his awareness, external memories he could rely on when his own mind failed. He set them up one by one, testing each, making sure batteries were charged and storage was clear. The act of preparing them was almost ceremonial, a ritual that made the day feel grounded and tangible.
Elior started with video recordings. He filmed each corner of his apartment, narrating everything aloud. The exact placement of objects, the way light hit the desk, the pattern of books on the shelf, the positions of chairs, even the small cracks in the walls. He described them in detail, speaking slowly and clearly so that no subtlety went unnoticed. This was more than documentation; it was a reclamation of certainty. Every word spoken, every motion captured, was a way to assert control in a world where memory could betray him.
After he had filmed the apartment, he moved to voice recordings. He spoke about the previous loops, the rules he had written, and the events that had unfolded. His voice was steady, deliberate, but the tension under it was palpable. Speaking the details aloud forced him to engage with them consciously. Each time he repeated a story, he uncovered gaps, small fragments he had forgotten or misremembered. Those moments of realization stung, but he did not stop. He recorded them anyway. Every omission, every correction, every uncertainty became part of the record.
He set up a series of alarms on his phone and watch. Each alarm was labeled with a description of what it was meant to remind him of. Wake up. Record observations. Check street for hazards. Review previous recordings. Every action had a corresponding signal. The alarms created structure, a rhythm for the day that no memory could undermine. The repetition itself became protective, a way to anchor him in the present while his mind hovered on the edge of forgetfulness.
Elior did not stop there. He began leaving signs throughout the apartment. Notes stuck to walls, sticky flags on the floor, small pieces of tape marking door handles, light switches, and the edges of furniture. Every object was a potential reminder, a visual cue to reinforce the external memory he was constructing. He marked the locations where objects had to remain, the exact angle of the blinds, the height of chairs, the position of the desk lamp. Every little adjustment mattered. Every little observation was a defense against his own failing mind.
Next, he took a notebook and began writing notes about his own body. He recorded physical sensations, minor injuries, and even marks on his skin. A small scratch on his arm became a note with a timestamp. A fading bruise on his leg was documented with a description of its size, shape, and color. He even used ink to mark his skin in some places, creating subtle reminders of positions, movements, or important details. The act of marking his body was strange at first, intimate and uncomfortable, but it reinforced his connection to reality. If memory could not be trusted, his body would carry evidence.
As the day progressed, Elior moved through a series of rehearsed checks. He walked slowly through his apartment, narrating aloud every detail he saw. Every time he encountered something new or noticed a subtle change, he recorded it. His own voice filled the room, creating a continuous loop of verification. He imagined the worst-case scenarios, what would happen if memory failed entirely, if the world tempted him to the forbidden location. Each recording became a safeguard, a tangible method to resist manipulation.
He paused in the afternoon, exhausted but determined. The sheer volume of recordings and notes was overwhelming. He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, and listened to his own voice play back on the recorder. Each recounting brought clarity and confusion in equal measure. Some details were consistent. Others shifted in minor ways, revealing the fragility of his recollection. He realized that even with all his preparation, there was still a chance of failure. The record was not perfect, but it was stronger than relying on memory alone.
As evening approached, Elior reflected on the day's efforts. He looked around at the maze of devices, notebooks, sticky notes, and ink marks. It was a chaotic network, but it represented order in his mind. Each piece reinforced the others. The recordings validated the notes, the notes validated the observations, and the observations validated the recordings. Together, they created a multi-layered system of reality external to his mind. It was imperfect, but it was resistance, and resistance was something.
He paused and considered the loops that had brought him here. Days of panic, days of control, moments of forgetting, and moments of horror had all led to this. He had learned that fear alone was insufficient, that discipline alone was insufficient, and that memory alone was unreliable. What remained was method, process, and tangible evidence. That was what he could rely on. That was what he could trust.
Night fell, and the city outside continued as it always did. He could hear distant sirens, the low hum of traffic, the occasional shout, the laughter of people walking home. None of it seemed unusual, but for Elior, the normalcy was part of the lesson. Danger was not always dramatic. It did not always announce itself. It could be subtle, slow, reasonable, and unavoidable if he allowed himself to forget. The external record was his way to catch the subtle, to document the reasonable, to defend against the invisible.
He went to bed later than usual, still recording, still marking, still checking, still narrating. Even in the quiet moments before sleep, he spoke softly to himself, recounting events of the day, verifying each note, each recording, each mark. He whispered the rules to himself, knowing that this time, the rules alone were not enough. Evidence was the shield he had built against his own mind.
Before drifting off, he scribbled one final line in the notebook: Everything must be recorded. He repeated it aloud, letting the words settle, letting them solidify in the space around him. If memory could betray him, the world could mislead him, and choices could be manipulated, at least this one thing could remain. Evidence could endure. Evidence could survive where memory failed. Evidence could anchor him in reality.
Elior lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, surrounded by the fruits of his day-long labor. He felt a tired satisfaction, the kind that came from building something tangible out of chaos. The recordings, the notes, the alarms, the ink marks, the signs around the apartment, all of it created a framework to stand on when the mind faltered. He understood that tomorrow, and the day after, he would continue to expand this system. There would be refinements, adjustments, more observations, more recordings. He would build layers of reality outside himself until even the subtle manipulation of his mind could be caught and corrected.
Sleep came slowly, fitful and fragmented, but it carried a measure of relief. For the first time in loops that had begun as cycles of panic, Elior felt like he had an ally outside his mind, a network of tangible records that could guide him when memory failed. He closed his eyes, letting the soft hum of the city lull him into a light doze, whispering to himself one final time, Evidence can be trusted. Memory cannot.