Before the World Forgot Me

Notebook

I could. I had the notebooks. I had documentation. I had evidence. I reached into my backpack and I pulled out Volume 1. I held it up. "I documented everything. Every memory. Every moment. I have proof."

The Stranger looked at the notebook. They looked at me. And then they did something that made my blood go cold. They reached over and they touched the notebook. And when their hand made contact, the notebook became transparent. Became insubstantial. Became like it was being viewed through a veil of water.

"Proof of what?" they asked. "Proof that you tried to exist? Proof that you documented the process of your own disappearance?"

I pulled the notebook back. It became solid again. But my hands were shaking. "What are you?" I asked.

"I'm someone who remembers you," they said. "Even when you don't remember yourself. Even when everyone else has forgotten. I remember. I remember all of it."

"Why?" I asked. "Why would you remember me if everyone else has forgotten?"

"Because I'm not everyone else. I'm outside the normal pattern. I'm not subject to the rules that govern the rest of the world. I remember things that aren't supposed to be remembered. I know people who aren't supposed to exist."

They finished their coffee. They set down the mug. They looked at me with eyes that seemed to contain depths that shouldn't have been possible. Eyes that held knowledge I didn't have. Eyes that suggested they could see versions of me that I couldn't see myself.

"I'm going to give you something," they said. They reached into their coat pocket and they pulled out a card. It was white. It had an address on it. Nothing else. No name. No phone number. Just: "347 Whitmore Street. Basement."

"What is this?" I asked.

"A place where people like us go. People who aren't quite real. People who are disappearing. People who need to remember."

"I don't want to go there," I said.

"I know. But you will. You'll try to live here for a while. You'll try to convince yourself that a new city will fix the problem. You'll spend some time thinking that distance from your old life might make you real. And when that doesn't work, you'll come to this address. And you'll find me."

I didn't take the card. But the Stranger placed it on the counter anyway. They stood up. They put on their gloves, which they'd removed while drinking coffee. And they started to leave.

"Wait," I said. "Are you real?"

The Stranger paused. They turned back to look at me. "That depends on what you mean by real. I'm consistent. I'm persistent. I'm capable of being remembered. But I'm not sure those are the same thing as real."

Then they left.

They walked out of the diner and I watched them through the window. They walked down the street and they turned a corner and they were gone. And I was left sitting at the counter holding a white card with an address on it.

The waitress came by and asked if I wanted anything else.

"Did you see that person?" I asked. "The one who was sitting here?"

She looked confused. "What person?"

"The one who just left. They were sitting right here. They had coffee."

The waitress looked at the coffee cup. It was empty, but there was still a faint warmth to it. "I don't remember serving anyone," she said. "But I've been busy. I might have missed them."

But she hadn't missed them. I could see that in her face. She didn't remember them at all. And the more she tried to remember, the more empty the memory became. The Stranger was someone that existed only for certain people. Only for me.

I took the card.

I went back to the motel. I sat on the bed and I stared at the card. Just an address. Nothing else. I could go there. I could find out what the Stranger was. I could find out what kind of place held people who were disappearing.

But I wasn't ready. Not yet. I still believed, on some level, that I could fix this. That if I just stayed in this new city long enough, if I just tried hard enough, I could convince someone to remember me. I could become real through sheer force of will.

So I put the card in my pocket.

I spent the next week trying to be visible. I went to the diner every day. I ordered the same thing every time. I hoped that if I created a pattern, a routine, the waitress would start to notice me. Would start to anticipate my order. Would start to acknowledge my presence in a way that suggested she expected me to come back.

It didn't work.

She was polite when I came in. She took my order. She brought me food. But she never recognized me from one day to the next. Never remembered that I always ordered the same thing. Never treated me like a regular. I was always a stranger, no matter how many times I came.

By the seventh day, I stopped going.

I sat in my motel room and I looked at the address on the card. 347 Whitmore Street.