I regained consciousness still sitting in the meeting room chair, my head slightly dizzy, as if I'd just awakened from a long dream.

  Instinctively, I looked around, only to find everyone absorbed in their documents or screens. No one seemed to notice my moment of absence—no surprise, no concern—as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

  A colleague glanced at me, handed over a cup of coffee casually, and smiled lightly. “You okay? You seem out of it.” His voice was indifferent, indicating nothing was particularly worth paying attention to.

  I was soon sent to the company's infirmary.

  The infirmary was clean and sparse, the faint smell of disinfectant lingering in the air. The medical officer, a young man with a strong build and neatly cut short hair, looked at me with calm, sharp eyes. Without small talk, he placed an ice pack on my forehead and said directly, “You're awake? I’ve already recorded your case. It's nothing unusual.”

  “What case?” I asked carefully.

  The officer glanced at me, his voice calm and firm: “Dissociation. It's common—nothing to worry about.”

  I tried to ask further, but the officer had already lowered his head, continuing to fill out paperwork without further explanation.

  The evening felt unusually long. I switched on the television, finding only dull and meaningless images flickering on the screen. Messages from colleagues were conspicuously silent. No one asked how I was. I opened the fridge, poured myself a glass from the unfinished bottle of gin, and stared blankly at the transparent liquid.

  The next day, I went straight into the infirmary and confronted the medical officer. “Yesterday you mentioned ‘dissociation.’ What exactly did you mean? Why wouldn’t you clearly explain it?”

  The officer stopped his work and slowly looked up, regarding me with an indescribably complex expression. Finally, he spoke:

  “You really want to know? Then go ahead—think about the Dusk, SAY it.”

  I froze. The word resonated through the air like a spell, immediately triggering waves of vivid imagery. Glass walls, an amber-colored sun, the vague silhouette of a woman...

  My consciousness blurred again, reality shimmering like rippling water. The next moment, I felt the gentle touch of soft, warm lips brushing against my own. I opened my eyes, meeting Lucy’s tender gaze.

  She smiled and continued to kiss me gently, her hands caressing my face, my chest, guiding me without hesitation. She led every movement, her warmth overwhelming and irresistible, until I surrendered completely under her rhythm.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Afterward, Lucy helped me gather the scattered clothes. Still smiling, she took my hand and guided me through my room for the first time.

  The room was a nearly perfect replica of my imagined ideal home, filled with details I had long since forgotten. The bedroom was spacious and bright; the paintings on the walls were exquisite. There was even a special room for collectibles. There, I found an 1831 officer's sword—a piece I had dreamed of buying but never found time for.

  Excited, I picked up the sword, pressing the cold scabbard against Lucy's bare stomach. She giggled, playfully pushing me away. Yet when I proudly mentioned “1831,” her smile vanished. She frowned slightly and gently tapped my cheek.

  "You mustn't talk about the outside," she said, her voice soft but serious. "Or history, or anything that might cause you to overlap. It's very impolite. You could even cause me to overlap too."

  I stood there, confused. Outside? Here? Where exactly was 'here'?

  Fragments floated up in my mind—the medical officer's last words, the muted fear in his eyes. I felt myself starting to slip again.

  Lucy immediately slapped my cheek a little harder, jolting me. Then she smiled again and said, "You're doing very well. But don't overlap again. If you do, the guards will throw you out."

  She led me out to explore more of the Dusk.

  We visited the exhibition halls first. Various modern art pieces filled the space—abstract forms, chaotic colors—but none were serious or heavy. Lucy explained, "The Dusk fulfills every human need. But it cannot be serious. Seriousness makes you think. Thinking makes you overlap. And overlapping is never forgiven here."

  Later, we arrived at a bar. The menu had no prices. Everything was free, or perhaps, nothing here had a price.

  As I drank, my mind grew hazy. Somewhere between two glasses of wine, I began to remember—the Dusk, the outside, my own identity.

  I felt it again—those iron hands of the guards, grabbing me with inescapable force.

  And when I opened my eyes again, I was lying back in the infirmary. The medical officer was there, calm as ever.

  "That's why," he said, adjusting the ice pack, "you must never mention that place."

  He looked at me seriously.

  "Subjectivity is the key. Losing it lets you dissociate and fall into the ‘place’. Regaining it makes you overlap and return to the outside. That word—it's a blurred zone. Half black, half white. It can make you dissociate outside or make you overlap inside."

  He paused, his gaze steady.

  "So it's better not to speak of it at all. Unless," he added quietly, "you no longer care about keeping this job."

  That night after work, I walked back to my apartment through the dim city streets. I noticed, more acutely than ever, how every building around me was stripped bare—grey walls, plain concrete, no decoration. It wasn't just my block. It was everything my eyes could reach. Nothing ornamental, nothing expressive. Only cold utility.

  I remembered hearing once that my grandfather lived in a house with real ceramic tiles in the bathroom, even stained glass windows. Can you believe that? Colored glass—in your own home.

  My parents, though, remembered nothing. They had nothing to pass down. Not even memories.

  By the time I was born, it was all gone. Not just for the poor—even the middle and upper classes had lost it. It wasn't about wealth. It was about forgetting.

  If I hadn't been raised partly by my grandparents, if my neighborhood hadn't preserved a dusty, half-forgotten library, I might never have known such things existed.

  In the twenty years when history disappeared, all of it vanished—as if people simply no longer needed it.

  My phone buzzed. Another reminder about my student loans.

  FUCK U ALL

  I put the phone down, exhausted. I closed my eyes and let the weight of the day—the buildings, the emptiness, the vanished world—fade from my mind.

  Gradually, I forgot everything again.