Sleepless, I decided to do something. I needed answers. I started searching the house, methodically, desperately. I found a locked drawer in the study. After a few minutes of fiddling, I managed to pick the lock. Inside, there was a small box. Inside the box, a USB drive and a note. The note was in my handwriting, but I didn't recognize the words. 'Don't trust anyone. They know. Protect the truth.' My blood ran cold. What truth? Who were 'they'? I grabbed the USB drive, my hands shaking. I needed to know what was on it, but I was also terrified of what I might find.
I rushed to the computer, my hands clumsy as I plugged in the USB drive. It was password protected. A wave of frustration washed over me. Of course it was. I stared at the password prompt, racking my brain. What was important to me? What was important to the 'me' who wrote that note? I tried Jasmine's name. No luck. My supposed birthday. Nope. My college. Still nothing. Hours passed, and I was no closer to unlocking the drive. Desperation began to set in. I needed to know what was on that drive. It felt like my life depended on it. Finally, in a moment of inspiration, I typed in a word: 'password'. The drive unlocked. I laugh, feel like this is such a classic from me.
The drive contained a series of video files, each labelled with a date. I clicked on the most recent one. It was me, sitting in front of the same computer, looking directly at the camera. 'If you're watching this,' I said, my voice sounding strained and unfamiliar, 'then I've lost my memory again. They're getting closer. You have to remember Project Nightingale. It's the key. Find Dr. Albright. She can help you. DON'T TRUST ANYONE' The video cut off abruptly. Project Nightingale? Dr. Albright? What did any of it mean?
My head swam. Project Nightingale? It sounded like something out of a spy movie. I clicked on the next video, dated a week earlier. This time, I looked even more haggard, my eyes filled with fear. 'They're watching me,' I whispered, my voice barely audible. 'I can feel it. They know I remember something. I have to be careful. Don't trust Jasmine. I don't know if she's one of them.' The video ended, leaving me reeling. Don't trust Jasmine? But she was my wife... wasn't she? Doubt gnawed at me. Was this all some elaborate game? Was I being manipulated?
As I watched the videos, I realized something: the dates were getting closer and closer to today. Each video was a desperate attempt to remind myself of something before my memory was wiped clean again. I frantically clicked through the remaining videos, piecing together fragments of information. Project Nightingale was some kind of experiment, something I was involved in. It had something to do with memory, with altering the human mind. And Dr. Albright... she was the key, the only one who could help me understand what was happening.
"I rushed to the computer, my hands clumsy as I plugged in the USB drive. It was password protected. A wave of frustration washed over me. Of course it was. I stared at the password prompt, racking my brain. What was important to me? What was important to the 'me' who wrote that note? I tried Jasmine's name. No luck. My supposed birthday. Nope. My college. Still nothing. Hours passed, and I was no closer to unlocking the drive. Desperation began to set in. I needed to know what was on that drive. It felt like my life depended on it. Finally, in a moment of inspiration, I typed in a word: 'Amnesia'. The drive unlocked."
"The drive contained a series of video files, each labelled with a date. I clicked on the most recent one. It was me, sitting in front of the same computer, looking directly at the camera. 'If you're watching this,' I said, my voice sounding strained and unfamiliar, 'then I've lost my memory again. They're getting closer. You have to remember Project Nightingale. It's the key. Find Dr. Albright. She can help you.' The video cut off abruptly. Project Nightingale? Dr. Albright? What did any of it mean?"
A chilling realization washed over me. This wasn't the first time this had happened. The way 'I' in the video spoke, the urgency in my voice, it all pointed to a recurring nightmare. I clicked on an older video, dated several months prior. In that video, I looked confused, disoriented, but not as panicked. 'If you're seeing this,' I said, 'you've probably lost your memory again. It's happening more frequently now. This time, it took you almost a week to realize something was wrong. They're getting better at erasing me.' A week? Last time, it had only taken a few hours for me to notice. Now, it was almost an entire day.
I frantically clicked through the videos, each one a snapshot of a progressively deteriorating mind. The earliest videos were almost calm, matter-of-fact. Later ones were filled with terror and desperation. In one video, I was frantically scribbling notes, trying to create a system, a way to trigger my memory before it was too late. 'The bus,' I wrote. 'It always happens on the bus. Something triggers it. Stay away from the bus!' But it was too late. The bus had already claimed me again.
