There are many versions of my story. Most of them end the same way.

A monster.
A warning.
A thing to be feared and forgotten.

​

That is not how I remember it.

 

I remember being changed. I remember the moment everything I was—everything I had been—was reduced to something others could no longer look upon without turning away. Over time, I came to understand something they did not. Fear does not erase what exists. It only alters how it is seen. And so, I chose not to disappear. I chose to observe. To preserve.

If the world insisted on changing the story, then I would record it as it truly was.

 

That is how the archive began. Not as a collection— but as a record of things as they are, before they are misunderstood, altered, or lost. Objects. Events. Fragments of moments that would otherwise fade or be rewritten.

 

For a long time, this was enough. To gather. To document. To ensure that nothing—no matter how small or strange—was forgotten. But over time, I began to notice something I could not explain. The records did not remain fixed. An entry would reference something that had not yet occurred. An object would appear already catalogued. Details would shift—not entirely, but just enough to make certainty impossible. At first, I believed it was error. Then I believed it was memory.

Now— I am no longer certain it is either. There are patterns within these inconsistencies. A structure I can almost perceive, but not fully define. As if something is placing events where they do not belong. Or perhaps— ensuring they do.

 

I am not alone in this.

There are two that move through the archive. I did not invite them. And yet, I would notice if they were gone. The first is always there before anything changes. Quiet. Unassuming. She settles into a space as if she has always belonged there. I have come to recognise her presence before I see her. There is a comfort in it— though I cannot explain why.

The second arrives only after. He does not stay. He does not hesitate. But when he is present, everything feels… resolved.

As though whatever has shifted has finished becoming what it was meant to be.

 

I do not understand them.

I do not know if they are part of this— or something beyond it. But I find myself watching for them. Relying on them, perhaps more than I should. That alone gives me pause.

 

I continue to record what I can. Not because I understand it, but because I believe it must be preserved. Even if the truth does not remain where I leave it.

 

If you are reading this, then you are already part of the archive.

Whether you intended to be or not.

And if you look closely— you may begin to notice it too.

If you do— then perhaps you will see what I cannot.

​

— M