I have to move my neck.
That is the first thing I look for.
Not the sensation.
Not the impulse.
The sentence.
For weeks it always appeared at the end.
Always after the same kind of saturation.
Always when the record seemed unable to close.
I have to move my neck.
It was the residue.
The signal.
The visible seam.
This time it is gone.
I remain motionless.
The mask is still attached to my face.
The pressure on my cheekbones remains exactly the same.
The air still tastes of lime.
Nothing seems different.
Except the absence.
I scan the file from the beginning.
I reread the final paragraphs.
I search for the sentence between the lines.
It is not there.
I close the document.
I open it again.
It is still missing.
Only then do I notice something worse.
There is a new note.
It is not at the end.
It is embedded between two paragraphs I remember reading a few minutes ago.
It was not there before.
The note contains a single line.
“You are not looking for it for the first time.”
I read it again.
Then I read it once more.
Not because it is difficult to understand.
Because I understand it too quickly.
I look around.
The room remains the same.
The lime.
The cracks.
The darkness behind the mask.
Nothing has changed.
Yet my body reacts before I do.
My shoulders tighten.
My jaw locks.
My breathing changes rhythm.
As if it recognizes something.
As if it has already been here.
The simplest explanation is that I am confused.
The second explanation is worse.
The note was already there.
The third explanation should not exist.
The note appeared because I was looking for it.
I move further down the file.
There is another line.
It is not formatted like a note.
It does not seem part of the text.
It stands alone.
Separated from everything else.
“You have already checked three times that the sentence is missing.”
I stop.
I do not remember counting.
But I know it is correct.
I look at the screen.
For the first time I notice something I should have seen earlier.
The file name does not match the one I opened.
It is not the same.
It only resembles it.
The difference is minimal.
One letter.
Maybe two.
Enough that I did not notice at first.
Enough that someone expected me not to notice.
The modification date does not match either.
According to the system it will be edited in seventeen minutes.
Not seventeen minutes ago.
Seventeen minutes from now.
I think it must be an error.
I need it to be an error.
Then a new line appears.
I do not see it being written.
It is simply already there.
As if it had been waiting for me.
“You are not worried about the date.”
It is right.
The date is not what worries me.
What worries me is something else.
The next line already knows that answer.
“You are worried about remembering this.”
I remain motionless.
The mask no longer seems to be the center of the mechanism.
The room does not either.
Not even the file.
The focus has shifted.
The question is no longer who is observing me.
The question is when I began recognizing these notes.
And why it feels as though this is not the first time I have arrived at this exact point.
I search for the sentence one final time.
I have to move my neck.
It does not appear.
Beneath it I find something worse.
A new note.
A note that was not there a moment ago.
A note that seems written for someone who has already finished reading this page.
“Now try to remember when you first noticed its absence.”
I have to move my neck…
