I know I'm awake—my eyelids are open—yet my eyes search through a black void, detecting no movement, only impenetrable darkness surrounding me. I am seated, feeling the weight of my body pressed into the cushions. The seat is not uncomfortable, rather well-padded yet firm, with a broad, sturdy backrest that cradles my shoulders. I could easily drift into deep sleep if I were tired enough, though I'm certain I'd suffer tremendous pain in my spine afterward—of this I have no doubt.
How scattered my thoughts are! I became aware without trying to move; suddenly, I let my mind wander—I don't recall actually beginning to think the moment I opened my eyes. It seems automatic. Is it reasonable to criticize myself? To judge myself for thinking so haphazardly? The first thought that emerged was simply... thinking—pointless thinking, yet I'm unwilling to stop generating these thoughts. How strange that I awakened at this moment to find two voices conversing inside my mind.
I can't understand what's really happening. All I see is darkness, though less dense than before. Faint outlines of objects around me catch weak rays of approaching dawn, revealing shadowy shapes. My thoughts flow in relentless randomness—baseless, directionless—a stream of consciousness that neither harms me nor reminds me of anything specific. This lack of connection oddly lightens my mind; it's a sensation I've never experienced before. The echo of my thoughts within my skull no longer pains me, though it remains unsettling.
I sense a heavy presence weighing upon my consciousness, enormous in scale—dominating much of my awareness. What did it tell me? I have no memory of it. Isn't that strange? This massive presence—I feel its influence lingering even after it departed, or at least I believe it has—but I don't know what it did to my thoughts. Perhaps I'm intoxicated... the lightness I feel is remarkable, gradually spreading throughout my body.
Thoughts flood in: thousands of terrible events I should remember, hundreds of disasters that never happened—they surface unbidden. I strain to recall something—any memory—but nothing comes, no recollection whatsoever. I fear I might discover something enormous that I've forgotten.
What now? I cannot even lift my fingertips. My body feels unharmed, with no illness or injury to prevent movement—but at this moment, I simply don't want to move. I still feel overwhelmingly exhausted. I close my eyes. Surely I will sink into deep sleep; my only wish is to remain here and do nothing.
The darkness around me begins to recede—from the pitch black of night toward approaching dawn, shifting in gradations from black to deep indigo, then vivid rose merging with pale orange. Objects around me catch increasingly dense specks of diffuse light from the horizon. Gradually the shapes sharpen—I realize I'm in a car, in the driver's seat. Little by little I move my neck, hearing the grinding of joints in my cervical spine, a sharp ache at the base of my skull—but not unbearable. I lift my head slightly toward the car's ceiling, hear vertebrae crack, and feel sudden relief.
The ceiling reveals nothing but ashen gray, stained edges... a hollow void, stripped and deteriorated. Some sections are covered in mold and fungus—even in areas where light and air should circulate—strange that no one noticed. Perhaps everyone simply ignored it, including the owner. It seems impossible that a car inhabited by humans would decay like this under daylight and fresh air... unless no one ever chose to maintain it.
Beyond the moldy roof, chaos dominates the interior—seats torn as if in violent struggle, scattered papers, some shredded, others stained with dark spots that might be blood. Brightly colored pills remain in blister packs, labeled with names so complex I cannot pronounce them. I pick up a discarded note from the floor and scan the chaotic handwriting—scrawled fragments I cannot decipher. It bears no signature, no addressee. Suddenly the ink begins to run, as if moisture seeps from the page's center in twin streams—someone's tears, perhaps. I touch the paper—still warm, still damp. Fresh tears well in my eyes as I watch the ink blur further, yet the note itself remains dry in its envelope. Impossible.
Time seems to accelerate. My vision clears beyond its previous limits—I can now distinguish my surroundings: forest spreads to my left and right. The car sits on a single-lane road stretching to the horizon—no curves, no signs, only fog obscuring the distance. Clouds race overhead, angry gray streaked with white. It will surely rain—I feel the piercing cold that awaits outside seeping through the car's gaps. This isn't the gentle chill of early dawn but the breath of an approaching storm. I gather my resolve and decide to step outside. My joints ache, my spine crackling from top to bottom.
My first breath outside fills my lungs with sharp, pure air—stinging yet refreshing to my congested lungs. Strong winds sweep through the surrounding forest, stirring leaves into sounds like voices and footsteps—as if the woods themselves are speaking.
For the next hour, I do nothing but stare into the emptiness before and around me: dense woodland and grass so thick that even sunlight slicing through from above fails to penetrate it. Still dark green, the leaves shimmer between shadow and light. I lean against the car's hood, numb from the freezing metal, my right hand braced against my lower back. I remain there for over an hour, staring at a sky heavy with dark storm clouds, the earlier white wisps now gone. I wait—wait for a passing car so I can ask where I am—but hear only profound silence and the whisper of trees encircling me.
I breathe deeply with each generous inhale my lungs demand. Yet something troubles me: pain and tingling in my right wrist. I rub and massage it, but the ache persists even when I lower my arm. Eventually I can't remain still. Not from anxiety—just curiosity bubbling within me, pushing me toward movement. I follow its call with tentative steps. My breath turns to steam before me as I move into the unknown, but I am neither hesitant nor surrendering to fear.
After many forward steps—I lose count—I explore the forest on both sides, encountering endless repetitions of identical trees as if replicated every mile. I leave the car behind and keep walking. Nothing changes—no landmarks, no passing vehicles to question... only me. I continue until time itself becomes meaningless. Then I notice a change in the forest to my right: the trees thin out, receding from the road as if revealing a new scene. Without realizing it, my walking becomes rapid running; my heart pounds, my throat grows dry, curiosity surging.
Soon the image sharpens: an open clearing spreads across the landscape—it's a residential development. I've found it. Finally, something breaks the forest's monotony.
My pace slows as I approach the housing. I turn my head, searching for movement or signs of life—but the neighborhood is completely deserted. White houses, identical in design—perfectly symmetrical—like a model suburb stripped of laundry lines, parked cars, or inhabitants. The dwellings stretch endlessly. Gathering courage, I enter the development and make my way to a backyard. Everything seems normal at first—overgrown grass and fallen branches suggest someone passed through recently. But I freeze in horror at what appears before me. My limbs go numb; I cannot advance further. My heart pounds against my ribs; blood thunders in my ears.
Crimson red flows everywhere—from every window, door, and opening. From each emerges razor-sharp black thorns, cracking outward; at first glance you might mistake them for branches. But they are thicker, denser, more menacing. Red roses bloom everywhere, overrunning these homes—shameless and thorn-armed, deeply rooted. You can sense pure malevolence radiating from them. I dare not take another step inside—it's impossible. I'm not naive; this place isn't just suspicious—it's terrifying. I maintain my vigil, eyes scanning the identical facades. Then my neck stiffens as I turn left—I feel someone's breath touching my nape, the warmth of their body. I begin to tremble. I freeze completely. I try to turn around—but I cannot breathe under this tension.