Lord of Perverted Ladies

The door opened.

I didn’t move.

The person standing on the other side looked exactly like them.

Same face.

Same eyes.

Same small smile.

Same way of standing with one hand resting against the doorframe.

For one terrible second, I wanted to believe it.

I wanted to walk forward.

I wanted to hear their voice again.

I wanted to pretend the hospital had never happened.

But the child beside me had already warned me.

You shouldn’t trust the person waiting on the other side.

So I stayed where I was.

The person smiled.

"You finally came home."

My chest tightened.

That voice.

It was theirs.

Almost.

There was something missing.

A hesitation.

A softness.

Something that belonged to the real person.

"Who are you?"

Their smile faded slightly.

"You know me."

"I do."

I looked at their face.

"But I also know you’re not them."

The figure sighed.

"You’re becoming difficult."

The child laughed.

"I told you he would."

The figure looked at him.

"You shouldn’t be here."

"Neither should you."

Their eyes narrowed.

Then they looked back at me.

"Come inside."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you aren’t the person I remember."

They smiled again.

"You remember me perfectly."

"That’s the problem."

I stepped closer.

"You look exactly like them."

"Then what’s wrong?"

"You know too much."

The figure became silent.

"You knew I’d come."

"You knew what I’d remember."

"You knew about the child."

"And you knew exactly what to say."

I pointed toward them.

"That’s not memory."

"It’s preparation."

The smile disappeared.

The figure stepped away from the doorway.

"You’ve learned more than you were supposed to."

The child whispered,

"Don’t let them touch you."

The figure’s eyes flashed toward him.

"Still hiding behind him?"

The child didn’t answer.

I looked at the doorway.

Beyond it wasn’t the white space.

It was the hospital.

Rain against the windows.

The same room.

The same bed.

But the bed was empty.

No person.

No monitor.

Nothing.

Only a chair.

And someone sitting in it.

Me.

Another version of me.

I stared.

The figure noticed.

"That’s where you belong."

I shook my head.

"No."

"You died there."

"I remember."

"You’ve been trying to return ever since."

"No."

I stepped forward.

"I’ve been trying to understand."

The figure smiled.

"There’s no difference."

"There is."

I looked at the other me sitting beside the empty bed.

"That version of me wanted to save someone."

"Yes."

"And failed."

"Yes."

"Then he created the first Story."

"Yes."

"And the Story became everything."

"Yes."

I looked at them.

"But you weren’t there."

Their expression changed.

"What?"

"You weren’t in the room."

They didn’t answer.

"You weren’t in the hospital."

I pointed toward the empty bed.

"You were never there."

The child smiled.

"Good."

The figure stepped backward.

"You don’t understand."

"No."

I shook my head.

"I understand exactly."

The image of the hospital began flickering.

"The person I loved told me to forget."

"Yes."

"But you didn’t."

The figure remained silent.

"Someone else did."

The child nodded.

"Exactly."

I looked at him.

"Who?"

He didn’t answer.

The figure suddenly moved.

Too fast.

One moment they were standing in the doorway.

The next, they were in front of me.

Their hand reached for my face.

I stepped back.

The white space exploded.

The child pulled me away.

"Run!"

We turned.

The white door slammed shut behind us.

The figure remained on the other side.

They didn’t chase us.

They simply stood there.

Smiling.

Then the door disappeared.

I looked at the child.

"Who was that?"

"An imprint."

"Of what?"

"Your memory."

"That’s impossible."

"Not here."

He started walking.

I followed.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere the Observer can’t see."

"Does that place exist?"

"Not yet."

I stared at him.

"That’s not reassuring."

"It wasn’t supposed to be."

We walked through the endless white.

Behind us, the Witness continued chasing the Author.

The sound of collapsing worlds became distant.

Eventually, the child stopped.

He crouched down and touched the ground.

Nothing happened.

Then he drew a circle with his finger.

A doorway appeared.

Not black.

Not white.

Grey.

Completely ordinary.

He opened it.

Beyond it was a small apartment.

I recognized it immediately.

My old apartment.

The one from before everything began.

My stomach tightened.

"How?"

"You remember it."

"I haven’t thought about this place in years."

"That’s why it’s safe."

We entered.

Everything was exactly where I remembered it.

The old sofa.

The cheap television.

The bookshelf.

A coffee mug on the kitchen counter.

Even the broken lamp I’d never repaired.

I walked toward the window.

Outside was the city.

Normal.

Cars.

People.

Rain.

No monsters.

No Archive.

No impossible Story.

No System.

Just life.

I almost smiled.

"This is where it started."

"No."

The child stood beside me.

"This is where you thought it started."

I looked at him.

"What happened here?"

He pointed toward the bookshelf.

"Third shelf."

I checked.

There were several old books.

I pulled one out.

Nothing special.

Another.

Nothing.

Then the third.

A black notebook.

I recognized it.

The same notebook from the hospital.

My hands went cold.

I opened it.

Most pages were blank.

The final page contained handwriting.

Mine.

I met someone today.

I turned the page.

They asked me what I thought happened after death.

Another.

I told them nothing happens.

Another.

They laughed.

Another.

They said I was wrong.

I kept reading.

The entries continued.

Weeks.

Months.

Years.

I had forgotten all of this.

The person I’d loved hadn’t entered my life at the hospital.

They had entered it here.

In this apartment.

Before the diagnosis.

Before the Archive.

Before the Story.

I turned another page.

They showed me something today.

The next page.

A door.

My breathing stopped.

The next.

They said there was something on the other side.

Then—

They said if I opened it, I would see the truth.

I looked at the child.

"You knew."

He nodded.

"Keep reading."

The next page was almost completely torn.

Only one sentence remained.

They weren’t afraid of what was behind the door.

I turned the page.

Nothing.

Then another.

Nothing.

Then the final page.

A sentence had been written in darker ink.

They were afraid of what was watching from behind me.

I froze.

The apartment suddenly felt colder.

I slowly turned around.

The child was no longer there.

I was alone.

The television turned on.

Static.

Then an image appeared.

The apartment.

Me standing in it.

But the camera angle was impossible.

It was filming from behind me.

I stared at the screen.

Someone was standing behind me.

I turned.

Nobody.

The television showed them.

I looked back.

The figure remained on the screen.

Tall.

Motionless.

Watching.

Then the image changed.

The hospital.

The Archive.

The academy.

The Black Door.

Every place I’d visited.

Every place I’d thought was real.

Then the image changed again.

A room I’d never seen.

A wooden table.

Two chairs.

The person I loved sat on one side.

Across from them...

Someone was sitting.

I couldn’t see their face.

But I heard their voice.

"Will he remember?"

The person I loved shook their head.

"Not if I do this correctly."

The other figure asked,

"And if he does?"

"They’ll come for him."

"Who?"

The person I loved looked toward the camera.

Toward me.

"The ones above the Observer."

The screen went black.

I stood frozen.

Then the child appeared beside me again.

"You weren’t supposed to see that."

I turned toward him.

"Who were they?"

"The person you loved."

"And the other one?"

He looked toward the television.

"The person who told them to make you forget."

My chest tightened.

"Who?"

The child hesitated.

For the first time...

He looked genuinely afraid.

"The first Writer."

I stared at him.

"But the Author was the second."

"Yes."

"Then who was the first Writer?"

The child looked at me.

"You."

I shook my head.

"No."

"Yes."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"It will."

He reached into his pocket.

Then handed me a small brass key.

The Historian’s Key.

I looked at it.

"You had this?"

"You left it with me."

"When?"

"Before you died."

I took the key.

The moment my fingers touched it, the apartment disappeared.

I saw the hospital again.

But this time...

I wasn’t sitting beside the bed.

I was standing outside the room.

Someone was talking to the person inside.

A man.

I couldn’t see his face.

But I knew his voice.

It was my voice.

Older.

Colder.

"Make him forget."

The person I loved looked toward him.

"He’ll hate you."

"I know."

"He’ll hate himself."

"I know."

"He’ll come back."

"I know."

"Then why?"

The older version of me looked toward the hospital room.

"Because if he remembers..."

He paused.

"...the Witness will find him."

The memory ended.

I opened my eyes.

The child was staring at me.

"You remember now."

I nodded.

"The person who told them to make me forget..."

"Yes."

"It was me."

He nodded.

"My older self."

"But why would I do that?"

The child looked toward the window.

"Because you discovered what the Witness really is."

"What?"

He looked at me.

"The Witness isn’t observing the Story."

He pointed upward.

"It’s observing us."

"Who is us?"

The child smiled sadly.

"Everyone who thinks they’re real."

The apartment began shaking.

The television turned on again.

This time there was no image.

Only text.

THE WITNESS HAS LOST THE AUTHOR.

A second line appeared.

IT IS LOOKING FOR ANOTHER.

Then a third.

IT HAS FOUND ONE.

The screen went black.

The child looked at me.

"Run."

"Why?"

"Because it isn’t looking for me anymore."

He pointed behind me.

I turned.

The grey door was opening.

Beyond it...

The Witness was waiting.

And for the first time...

Its eyes weren’t looking at the child.

They were looking directly at me.

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