[dem-l249]

People will get narrow from rage. I sadly found out it is true.

[dem-l249]

an idea of a psychological horror game about amnesia.

It opens with the character falling from a building. From there, the calendar begins to move backwards. Each morning, he wakes up on an earlier day.

The player takes on the role of a man losing his memory, completing daily routines, collecting items, and uncovering fragments of the story. As time rewinds, the character’s attributes gradually recover. The overall tone shifts from something dry, oppressive, and suffocating into something softer, brighter, almost hopeful.

As the character’s stats improve, the gameplay becomes easier, and the focus transitions from challenge to narrative.

The final day could be a precious memory: a walk with a loved one in better times, a shared conversation, a promise that mattered.

-

(Full collection) - good ending?

The final piece falls into place. You remember everything–if only for a moment. The bitterness lingers on your tongue longer than the memory itself, and grief overtakes you before death ever could.

Down, down!

You know nothing can be undone.

-

(Incomplete collection) - bad ending?

Your memories dissolve into a haze, fading as quickly as your body heat, collapsing into chaos before your thoughts can reach them. Hatred, the resentment that bound your entire life, even the loathing toward your own numbness, finally begins to blur.

You’re tired. …so tired.

Perhaps this is for the best.

---

The first day the player meets a certain character is, in fact, the last time the protagonist will ever see them.

Amusing, isn’t it?

[dem-l249]

Me: *work 3 hours*

I need to take a breath in the hermit's house. *start ninah*

*work 1 hour*

time to go to the hermit's house.

*open work file for one minute*

the hermit's house.

..

[dem-l249]

My hermit had that strange dream on the day before the end.

When he woke up the next day he described, “Everyone is gone.” Just like that, unprepared, I triggered the Isolation Ending. I’d meant to save it for last.

I mean, I know the dream events are random, but thinking about it now, after the pale maniac, after the Vigilante, after everything!

Well, the rules don’t bind you anymore. Being alone is no longer a threat to your life. There’s no breath of death’s kin against your neck. But the dog has already moved into your body, even convincing you it was yourself.

So in a single night, you cleaned the entire house of its tenants. Because no one is allowed to remain in your house to meet the end with you. This thought never wavered in your mind for even a moment. It should be this way. Just like in the days before the end began–you are better off alone.

Your reason didn’t even witness the moment when it all happened.

If it was “me” who urged him to pull the trigger, then at least it would mean he was conscious when the decision was made. But the homeowner finished everything with his own hands on the final night, and he doesn’t even remember what he did. Stubborn thing. I’m impressed. Homeowner. Dear Homeowner.

I bet you hate my hesitation too. I didn’t shoot the woman who murdered the neighbor’s daughter, because her twin sister who loved her most, sitting on the other side of the sofa.

I, a player like me, I am your sentimentality.

What is justice?

[dem-l249]

The desk lamp was something you arranged a long time ago.

The bedside table is old.

You tell me not to be afraid of the water dispenser.

It’s the kind that feels steeped in nostalgia.

We stand by the window and decide to talk for a while before sleep.

We talk about how some people stubbornly believe in baseless news.

You say,

“That’s because they believe things ought to be that way.

People like to believe what they want to believe.”

A bitterness rises in me all of a sudden.

Did I fabricate your love for me?

Do you love me—

“What?”

“Of course that’s real.”

You reproach my doubt, then smooth it over.

“Besides, your insight is among the best I’ve ever seen…

I doubt something like that would happen to you.”

“This kind of thing might still happen in the future,

so I want you to understand—

even if you can’t hear my voice,

I have never left.”

You toy with my hand.

You say this has also made you aware of your own weakness.

You say you should have sent me to the hospital before everything began.

“That’s not it,” I say.

“If I wanted to, I would take myself there.”

“But at least you would listen to me.”

You’re the best doctor, I tell you.

I don’t want you to doubt yourself because of this.

Without you, I would have quietly died somewhere in a corner by now…

This is all my fault.

“I don’t want to start a competition like that.

Let’s stop blaming ourselves here.”

“If I had Alzheimer’s,

the last word left in my mind

would definitely be your name.”

You say that as long as you’re here,

you won’t let that happen.

I say maybe forgetting everything would be best for me.

But I don’t want to forget you,

or what we’ve been through.

We begin to talk about what “I” is.

You smile.

“Back to abstract questions again, philosopher?”

“If I lose my memory, am I still me?”

“You’re still Patrick. You are you.

The way your mind has been shaped by the past doesn’t just disappear.

I would recognize you.”

“But that still depends on memory…

What if I change—

become someone even I can’t recognize?”

“I don’t deny that continuity of memory plays a role

in shaping individual consciousness.

But there’s no need to cling to it so tightly.

If change is a kind of death,

then people kill their past selves countless times in a lifetime.

The one who is thinking right now—

isn’t that still you?”

You turn the question back on me.

“What does ‘I’ mean to you?”

“You’re throwing my own question back at me again,”

I say, half joking.

“I’ve already answered yours.

Now it’s your turn.”

“I think it’s the soul.”

“Do you really believe there’s still 21 grams left after death?”

I think for a moment, then say,

“No. Not like that.

But if the body can’t truly distinguish one individual from another,

and if our consciousness is only an illusion projected

by the arrangement of flesh—

then any part that is willing to call itself ‘I’

is an individual.”

You can’t really deny that.

I think our views are actually similar.

***

“When one can no longer think,

and will never be able to again—

that’s when we truly die. Right?”

“Sadly, yes.

Even if death hasn’t been declared medically,

the self is already gone.”