The folder was not called “crop.”
It was not called “authority.”
Nor any of the words I had spent weeks searching for.
It was simply called “May.”
I found it inside another folder called “May.”
Inside that one was another folder with the same name.
The fourth one appeared empty.
Or so I thought.
The window remained open for several seconds.
Then a file appeared.
I did not remember opening it.
I did not even remember seeing it before.
It was a photograph.
The lime room.
The same wall.
The same cracks.
The same chair.
The same feeling of arriving too late for something.
I studied the image for nearly a minute before noticing the detail.
The chair had been moved.
Only a few centimeters.
Just enough for the marks of its legs to no longer match the stains on the floor.
I opened another photograph.
The chair was back in its original position.
I opened a third.
Moved again.
I kept going.
The sequence made no sense.
Until I found a note.
It was attached to the wall.
Very small.
Almost outside the frame.
Only one sentence.
“Do not move the chair.”
I stared at it for several seconds.
Then I looked at the chair in front of my desk.
The real one.
Without thinking, I pushed it backward.
The sound echoed through the room.
Nothing happened.
Or so I believed.
When I returned to the folder, a new photograph had appeared.
The chair had moved exactly the same distance.
Not a centimeter more.
Not a centimeter less.
I felt something close to exhaustion.
Not fear.
Not surprise.
Exhaustion.
As if I were catching up with a conversation that had begun long before I arrived.
I searched for the date.
The photograph was older.
That was not the strange part.
The strange part was recognizing it.
I knew I was going to find it.
Even before opening it.
As if I had already read that sequence.
As if someone had left instructions in a section of memory I could no longer locate.
I found another file.
This time it was a screenshot.
It showed the same folder.
The same series of photographs.
And a note open in the background.
The note read:
“You were not here.”
I remained motionless.
It was the first time a sentence did not confirm anything.
It was a denial.
A contradiction.
A crack.
I kept searching.
The next screenshot showed another note.
Same handwriting.
Same background.
Different sentence.
“You never left.”
I returned to the first one.
Then the second.
Then back again.
Both remained there.
Incompatible.
Waiting.
For the first time I felt that the problem was not remembering.
The problem was deciding which memory had to disappear.
I opened a text document.
Empty.
Except for a single line at the bottom.
“Do not open the audio file.”
I stared at the filename.
The file was directly underneath.
I did not remember seeing it before.
It lasted seventeen seconds.
I played it.
For the first ten seconds nothing happened.
Only silence.
Then I heard breathing.
And a voice.
My voice.
I recognized the tone immediately.
I recognized the exhaustion too.
As if I had been speaking for hours.
It said only one sentence.
“When you hear this, check the date.”
I checked the date.
The file had been created three days from now.
Not approximately.
Not by mistake.
Exactly three days from now.
I played it again.
The voice sounded more tired the second time.
Or perhaps it was me.
I am not sure.
I opened the properties.
Then checked again.
Nothing changed.
The file still belonged to a day that did not yet exist.
Then I noticed something else.
A new photograph.
I did not remember opening it.
I did not even remember seeing it appear.
It showed the room.
The chair.
The wall.
The cracks.
And a person sitting at the desk.
The image was blurred.
But I could distinguish one thing.
The position of the neck.
Turned slightly to the left.
As if listening.
I zoomed in.
Then again.
There was a note on the table.
Only one sentence.
“This time you moved it.”
I kept staring at it.
Trying to remember when.
Trying to remember whether it had really happened.
The strange thing was that I could perfectly imagine the movement.
What I could no longer remember was remaining still.
I have to move my neck…
