ENTRY 1 — Root Date: [blank]

I’m Leon. I’m… I was Leon.
I don’t know anymore.

I found this notebook on my desk today. My handwriting. My name at the top. I know it’s mine, but reading the first few pages feels like peeking into someone else’s head.
On the wall, in thick black marker:

WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN.

DON’T TRUST YOUR HEAD.

Did I write that?

I remember liking bad jokes. I remember the smell of oranges.
But not where I live. Not who I loved. Not why my hand shakes when I hold the pen.
Flipping through, I find a section underlined three times.
These lines in particular… they’re scary, concerning:

“The Memory Tax can’t be negotiated. You pay for services with memories, not money.

Small services: a meal delivered, a cab ride, a prescription refill — they take something minor, like the memory of a face in a crowd, or a flavor you once loved.

Specialized services: surgery, legal work, protection — they demand more.

Entire relationships, entire years, taken.

You don’t get to choose what’s taken. You only know something’s gone after it’s missing.”

My chest tightens.
How many times have I paid?
What have I already given up?
There’s a scribbled line I don’t remember writing:

“It’s not the first Leon.”
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ENTRY 2 — Root
Date: [blank]

This house is — god, it’s perfect.

The walls are white, but not sterile. They hold the light like soft fabric, diffusing it into every corner without glare.
There’s no dust. No clutter. No hum of machines.
Only quiet.
When I walk barefoot across the floor, it’s warm. Like the sun passed through the glass ceiling above and left something behind. I haven’t found a switch for the lights, but I haven’t needed one.
There’s a smell in the air — like fresh cotton and rain just before it falls.
I sat in the center of the main room today, staring up. The ceiling is entirely glass — or something like it. The sky above is a dull silver. Cloudless. Timeless. I could’ve stayed there forever.
In a way, I hope I did.
On one wall, though — just one — in thick black marker:

WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN.
It’s the only thing that doesn’t belong.
It disturbs the peace, just a little.
When I walked past it again, I remember saying, “Not again.”
That slipped out too easily. Like I’d said it before.
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ENTRY 3 — Root
Date: [blank]

I went back and read old entries.
“Leon, don’t forget to feed the plant.”
“Leon, don’t forget your sister’s birthday.”
“Leon, don’t forget what they took last time.”

I don’t have a sister. Do I?
The plant in the corner is dry and yellow, brittle to the touch. I think it’s been dead for a while.
The house is still beautiful. Quiet. Bright. It should feel like a sanctuary.
But lately, I’ve been noticing the silence more. The lack of… everything.
No birds, no traffic. No time.
I passed by the black writing again.

WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN.
It doesn’t look angry anymore. It looks desperate.
In the margin near a grocery list, I found a hurried note:
“They don’t just take events — they take the threads between things.”

You might remember learning to ride a bike, but forget who taught you.
You might remember falling in love, but forget with whom.
A news clipping pinned to the wall curls at the edges:
| CIVILIAN ASKS: MEMORY TAX
| OR GOVERNMENT CONTROL?

I laughed today — I still have that, at least. Found a joke scribbled in the margin:
“What’s a memory thief’s favorite dessert?”
“Forget-me-nots.”

Not great, but it’s mine.
I think it’s mine.
There’s a note at the top of the page I didn’t see before:
“To the next Leon, write clearly.”
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ENTRY 4 — Root
Date: [blank]

The house is hauntingly beautiful.
That’s the phrase that came to me this morning. “Hauntingly beautiful.”
Because it ‘haunts’?
I was writing in the notebook — I turned to the first page and realized I don’t remember naming it.
The cover says Root.
Why?
Why Root?
Was that a metaphor? A code? A person?
I had a moment where I stared at the cover and felt… echoes.
Like someone else stared at this just as I did, hands shaking, trying to remember if this was theirs.
I opened a cabinet today and found a set of keys I don’t recognize. Four of them. No idea what they unlock.
I wonder if this house came with them.
I wonder what else came with this house.
I wonder what I gave away for it.
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ENTRY 5 — Root
Date: [blank]

I keep telling myself: It’s fine. It’s just small things.
The lamp flickers when I sit to write. For a long time, I just stared at the door.
Not because someone’s knocking — but because I don’t remember where it leads.
The first day I visited the kitchen, there was a fifteen day food supply. Only three days’ worth remain. I think I need to get food.
A whisper curls through my mind:
What if you open it and nothing outside makes sense?
I wonder if we all just pretend it’s normal because the cost of refusing is worse.
At the top of this page, barely legible:
“If I lose enough pieces, am I still me?
How many Leon-shaped parts can fall away before there’s no Leon left?”

Beneath it, in a different pen, maybe older:
“Don’t worry. They’ll make another.”

The notebook feels heavier today, like the weight of everything I’ve forgotten is sinking into the paper.
Did I always write this small?
Did I always tilt my letters like this?
The worst part isn’t the forgetting. It’s the space after — the hollow where something important should be, but isn’t.
It’s the grief for a thing you can’t even name.
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ENTRY 6 — [Untitled]
Date: [blank]

There’s a message on the wall.
Big, dark letters:

WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN.
I don’t remember writing it.
There’s a notebook on the desk, old and worn, cover scratched blank. I opened it and read through a few pages. Some guy named Leon filled it with thoughts, lists, little jokes.
I don’t know who he is.
The house is… stunning. White everywhere. Gentle light from above. Like a chapel or a dream.
But there’s a black mark on one hallway wall. Messy. Ugly. Angry.
It makes the rest of the house feel fake. Like set dressing around a stain.
At the bottom of one page, circled over and over:
“If you’re reading this and don’t remember writing it, you’ve…
already been replaced.”

I wonder why I feel sick when I read his words.
Why do my hands shake when I see my own handwriting in them?
Why something deep inside me whispers:

Run. Before they take more.

I don’t know what they’re taking.
I don’t know what. I don’t know why.
But I can feel it.
Sliding away.
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ENTRY 7 — [Blank]
Date: [blank]

Hi!
I’m Cal.
Found this old notebook on the desk — no title, just pages and pages of someone else’s life. A man named Leon, I think. Strange guy, but kind of funny.
There’s a big message on the wall that says:

WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN.
The house is… weird. Too clean. It smells like lemon and ozone.
There’s no dust. No dirt. No signs of life except… me.
It should feel peaceful, but I feel like I’m being watched.
That black scribble on the wall — looks like someone tried to erase it once. You can still see the outline, bleeding through the paint.
I think it says something. But I don’t want to look at it for too long.
This pen feels familiar. Might be a coincidence since it fits in my hand just right.
My hand shakes a little when I hold it. Weird. Like muscle memory, almost.
I almost signed this Leon.
Hah. No idea why. Anyway —

Anyway, I figured I’d start fresh, keep track of things.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll figure out what this is all for.
Oh — at the bottom of the last page, in faint, almost invisible ink:
“You said that last time.”