Beyond the Veil

My name is Amelia Haart, and I'm fortunate enough to know how to identify a good story the moment I see one. It's something I detect quickly—those small details that, when I see them together, set off all my alarms. Some call it a gift, talent, or knack. Some compare it to the musician who composes a song that stands out from the rest in an oversaturated market, or the filmmaker who manages to maintain the rhythm and captivate the viewer. An art, some say. A gift, say others. I'm one of those who believe that gifts, talents, and knacks are achieved through dedication—gradually honing your analytical capacity until you know how to decide which path will give you the best return. Work, dedication, practice, and perhaps yes, a little intuition. Therefore, what I have isn't talent; it's simply technique. Many hours behind me learning to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Be that as it may, I've managed to find many good stories throughout my career. Some of them have derailed the plans of enormous companies with few scruples and much power. Others have brought down more than one politician dirty up to their eyeballs. I suppose you know what I'm talking about.

Those stories have led me to be considered an incisive, objective, and independent journalist. I've only tried to be empathetic with each situation I've had to cover. I've allowed myself to be amazed and haven't let prejudices cloud my analytical capacity. And starting from there, I've told what needed to be told, getting as involved as possible with each story, taking them on as if they were my own, connecting dots and making people uncomfortable, generating, in turn, a large number of enemies. Perhaps too many.

Because one thing I haven't told you is that you can have a gift, a talent, a knack, be hardworking, perceptive, useful. You can be many things—it doesn't matter what you call it—but there are very big enemies, giants that, believe it or not, are impossible to fight, no matter how skilled you consider yourself. They are those Goliaths that not even ten Davids could defeat, even with every advantage in the world. Those so deeply embedded within the system that their roots, their tentacles, or whatever metaphor you prefer, reach much further than you can imagine.

I came across one of those. I found a story that didn't just scratch the surface of the reality we're living in. The story dug so deep that I reached a place they did not want me to visit.

First, the newspaper let me go, offering no explanation beyond a sudden personnel adjustment. That didn't stop me—I didn't stop working on it. I knew what I had was something big. I thought that once finished, I would find another place to tell it. And if I couldn't find one, I'd publish it on my own. I wouldn't lack the means.

Then came the personal threats. First to me, then to my friends and family. That's when I understood that perhaps I should stop, but stubborn as I am, I didn't. Despite the risk, I finished my investigation.

I couldn't find a single media outlet willing to publish it. Some were very obvious in their excuses—they didn't want to piss off certain people. Others, smaller and also more empathetic, confessed that the main advertisers they had would stop providing the economic injection that sustains their outlet if they published it. They had even received veiled instructions to that effect.

Basically, I became persona non grata in the world of journalism. A pariah, someone diseased that nobody wanted to approach, fearing the consequences of that association.

In an act of rebellion and in an increasingly precarious economic situation, stubborn as I am, I decided to set up a website and tell my story there. They weren't simple enough just to shut down the website, though I know they could have done it with almost a snap of their fingers. The tentacles were very long, the roots very deep. Instead, they managed to silence me while gradually introducing into my profession the idea that I was nothing more than a nutcase, a deviant with a need for attention and absurd conspiracy theories.

And that is how they managed, in a process of no more than two years, to end my career, my economy, my marriage, and—why not say it—my health as well. I was one David. They were a hundred Goliaths.

Surprisingly, when I thought all was lost, someone became interested in me because of the notoriety I had accumulated during those two years. My investigations, added to the fact that they labeled me crazy or a conspiracy theorist, caught the attention of the outlet I now work for: The Lobster, a news web portal full of theories ranging from those that talk about alternative governments pulling strings from the shadows—something I had experienced firsthand and didn't doubt—to those claiming we'd already had contact with extraterrestrials living among us. The filter, let's say it gently, was lax. They didn't offer much, but they allowed me to work as a journalist and, in addition, I'd receive enough salary to pay rent and eat. A pittance that meant the world to me. Accepting was a professional necessity and an act of personal desperation.

The Lobster was the ideal place for the average conspiracy theorist, but the truth is it had a certain following, and both the website and the daily live streams broadcast on the internet had quite an audience. I didn't know if it was more for having a laugh or because people actually believed everything we broadcast. I think it was a mix of both, but the fact is it worked and kept enough subscribers to hire me for minimum wage plus a performance-based bonus.

My responsibility within The Lobster was to direct and present one of the online live streams the channel would begin broadcasting on Thursday nights. It was called Revelations. The format was simple: open lines to listen to the most incredible, outlandish, disconnected, and absurd stories viewers told, while trying—yes—to apply my maxim: don't make value judgments, don't prejudge, listen attentively, empathize. It wasn't my dream job—sometimes I could even sense certain rigging in some of the calls or interviews I did. I never knew for certain. Regardless of the above, I tried to incorporate what I had learned throughout my career, despite the fact that what was being told to me bordered on the ridiculous. For me and the little integrity I had left, it was very important to do my work the only way I knew how: with rigor and respect.

Although it wasn't the most common thing, sometimes we were lucky enough to interview a guest in person. We did so following our greatest premise: guaranteeing their privacy. To do this, we prepared the studio with the appropriate backlighting and modulated the guest's voice so they could hide their identity. These interviewees sometimes interacted with calls from the audience or with messages that came to us through the streaming chat, previously moderated, of course—otherwise, the humiliation would surface.

That has been my life for the last year. The truth is that sometimes, among a tangle of absurd stories, one slipped through that was interesting enough to delve deeper into, catching my attention and activating the sensor that kicks in when small details stand out.

Today I have a show.

The Interview

After arriving at the studio, I took my seat and began my routine. I took out my notepad, noting the date on a clean page, as I always did: February seventeenth, 2033. New day, new page. A tidy notebook reflected my meticulous nature and constant effort to maintain control.

Finally, I adjusted my microphone, turned on the laptop, and when the on-air light came on, I began my presentation while turning my ring around my finger. Some people need a pen while they talk, some need to press their hands together, touching only the fingertips, like a middle-class politician. I needed my ring.

"Good evening, and welcome, once again this Thursday, to Revelations. The space where you are the protagonist."

“My name is Amelia Haart, and I'm here to listen to your story. We all have something to tell. I'm convinced you do, too. If you have lived an extraordinary experience, something unusual, or something you never dared to tell because of the consequences it might have, this is your place.”

"This program was born precisely to give voice to all these stories. You have nothing to worry about—we won't judge you here. We will listen attentively and rigorously, and with the support of our experts, we will try to help you find an explanation, if one exists.”

"We'll do so, as you know, on two great and solid pillars: respect and privacy. We, mere hosts, can only provide the perfect stage so you can feel free enough to be honest with all our viewers. You provide the rest. Because there are many stories, but only a few extraordinary ones. And I'm sure yours is in this second category.”

"Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Revelations begins."

The intro wasn't improvised. I had repeated it many times, but I felt it worked as well as the first day. I thought these first words gave the program a patina of sincerity and seriousness, despite whatever topic was being addressed. Nevertheless, I couldn't help being very analytical and sometimes critical of the stories we received. Call it a professional defect. Some caught my attention, and then I directed the program to delve deeper into them. Others were simply absurd, and I decided to cut them short and steer the show in other directions. Always with respect, even though I sometimes felt they might be pulling my leg. Even though I sometimes felt it was all a crude hoax, a setup by the channel to capture audience. This flexibility I had, not forcing myself with rigid structures that most applied, had helped the program generate interest above the rest of The Lobster's broadcasts.

"From this moment, the lines are open. Our team will receive your calls and messages through the stream chat and our social media accounts. As you know, we cannot address all your stories. Only some will make it onto the program so they can be heard and, whenever we can, we will shed some light to help us all understand.

"Today, in addition, we have a guest who will dazzle us with their experiences in our 'Live Confessions' section. You know, if you want to come to the show and tell us your story live, contact us."

The truth is that few people had the courage to come to the studio, and when they did, they usually did not pass an initial screening. Also, when the investigation team found an interesting story and we contacted the protagonist to invite them to the show, they rarely agreed to collaborate. We were not exactly well regarded. We had been accused on countless occasions of spreading hoaxes, inventing stories, or generating unnecessary panic. Despite attempting to make a serious and respectful program, we were considered a bunch of manipulators and conspiracy theorists with some visibility and perhaps too much free time.

"We'll begin with the first call. Good evening."

"Hello, good evening."

"Welcome to Revelations. We want to hear your story."

"Well, you see... it will sound ridiculous, but I..."

"Nothing is ridiculous, dear friend. Don't worry and feel at home. We're listening attentively." It wasn't the first nor would it be the last person for whom verbalizing their experience was quite a challenge. They were not used to doing it. They were not used to having someone on the other side genuinely interested in what had happened to them.

"I... You see... I hear a voice. One that does not exist."

"A voice?"

"Yes, that's right. The voice isn't always with me, but sometimes I hear it. It talks to me. It tells me things."

"Let us try to understand the situation."

"Of... of course."

"This voice—where does it come from? Does it originate inside you?"

"I hear it, like having someone beside me even when I'm alone. It's terrifying."

"You don't have to be afraid. We're here to help. Tell me something—does this voice respond to your questions? Have you been able to converse with it?"

"No... I haven't tried. Every time I hear it, it terrifies me, it freezes me."

"Dear friend, your reaction is understandable. Doctor?"

Doctor Feinmann had been collaborating with us since Revelations began, and his point of view greatly helped reinforce the rigorous approach I had always fought to maintain.

"Hello, friend, I'm Doctor Feinmann."

"How are you, Doctor? Pleased to meet you."

"Very well, thank you. I have a question: are you familiar with the principle of Occam's razor?"

"I have heard of it, though I am not entirely sure I can explain it."

"The principle says that, all things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the most plausible." The doctor's diction was excellent. He tried to maintain a slow tempo while enunciating precisely. His tone conveyed wisdom and calm. He was a good professional. "There are countless registered cases of people with your same symptoms. The vast majority of them speak of auditory hallucinations. These can stem from a wide range of different origins, all of them psychological. From here and with the information I have, I cannot diagnose—it would be imprudent on my part—but I wouldn't be wrong if I told you that the first thing you should do is consult a specialist and tell them, naturally, what's happening to you. What I can venture is that, as I say, it's very likely that its origin is psychological. It's much more common than you imagine. You're not crazy, nor should you consider yourself strange because of it. Normalize the situation, talk to a specialist who will surely help you find the root of the problem and, with luck, will manage to silence those uncomfortable voices. It won't be an instantaneous process, so you'll need patience."

"I understand, Doctor."

"Dear friend," I said, "do the doctor's explanations help you?"

"Absolutely. I was afraid to talk about it, but knowing the problem is more common than I thought will help me normalize it. Tomorrow I will look for a professional. Thank you so much for your help—I listen to you every Thursday."

"That's what we're here for. Hopefully it gets resolved, and thank you for always listening," I said before hanging up.

A couple more calls came in, not very relevant, before moving on to the "Live Confessions" section. The guest had already positioned himself in the studio. The backlighting drew only a silhouette, preventing recognition.

"Good evening and welcome," I greeted him, unable to distinguish his face despite him being a couple of meters away.

"Hello, good evening." His voice sounded very deep, intentionally distorted. "I must tell you I don't have much time."

"Are you in a hurry? You are the one who offered to tell us your story."

"Believe me, if I could, I would spend hours talking with you, but soon they will know where I am."

"Is your safety at risk for coming here?"

"Yes."

"In that case, you should contact the authorities first, don't you think?"

"They wouldn't believe me. Besides, what could they do? They're as much the victims as you and I."

"There are ways to tell your story without revealing your location. A phone call, for example."

"But it wouldn't work that way—I know because I've tried it before. I must be here. I must tell you in person."

"What must you tell me in person?" I said, glancing sideways as I underlined the date in my notebook: February seventeenth, 2033. I was not particularly receptive.

"What would happen if I told you I can prove that everything that happens repeats, over and over, always in the same way?"

"Excuse me?" I looked away from the notebook, giving him my full attention again. It was not the intrigue around him—it was the firmness of his words. He was completely sure of what he was saying; he did not hesitate, his voice did not tremble.

"That everything repeats."

"Do you mean we have had this conversation before?"

"Let's say this isn't my first attempt."

"But I don't remember any conversation. Obviously, how could I recall something that hasn't happened?"

"It doesn't work that way."

"And how does it work then? How is it that everything repeats and at the same time this is the first time we are having this conversation? It doesn't seem to make much sense, does it?"

"You cannot remember what happens after each reset. I can."

"What does that have to do with it?" I said, writing "Remembers" and underlining it.

"A lot. That you don't know this isn't the first time we've talked does not mean it hasn't happened. You, like everyone else, are trapped here, repeating the same thing over and over without realizing it. I'm not."

"You are not trapped?"

"Of course I am, but I'm aware of everything that has happened in previous cycles. And because I'm aware, I can decide what to do. Like now, sitting with you. This is the first time this has happened, because I've decided it should be so. It's not what you or I are supposed to be doing at this moment."

"What should I be doing right this instant?"

"Continuing to take calls. None interesting enough, I assure you."

"You can assure me?"

"I've watched your show."

"This show? Today's?"

"Yes. On several occasions."

"Let me recap, if you don't mind." I was unsure if I understood what he was telling me. "According to you, everything that happens here repeats identically."

"Every day. Every twenty-four hours exactly," he specified.

"It repeats identically every twenty-four hours," I repeated. "Each and every one of us here does the same thing each time without being aware of it. As if ultimately, when we return to the beginning, everything is erased."

"That is correct."

"Except you."

"As far as I know."

"Why not you?"

"I'm not sure. One day everything changed. First, it was a feeling of déjà vu. Suddenly, I knew what was going to happen, as if I had lived it before. Then the day repeated. And it repeated again. It didn't take many dawns to understand what was happening to me."

I wrote "déjà vu" next to an arrow pointing toward "Repetition."

"And why are you telling me this?"

"I want to wake you up."

"Wake me up?"

"Make you aware. Make you remember. Like me."

"To what end?"

"You are very intelligent and perceptive. You are wasted here. You are worth much more. Your track record backs you up. You would be a great ally in my mission."

"Your mission?" I couldn't help but write "Me" in my notepad. I agreed with what he said. I felt wasted in this quagmire that was The Lobster. Like a fish out of water. But this was it or nothing.

"Getting out of here. Escaping this repetitive reality."

"And how do you intend to wake me up?"

"By demonstrating with facts that what I say is true. That's why it was necessary for me to be here in person, despite the risk."

"So far you are not succeeding, I assure you," I said ironically.

"Don't be so sure. I'm improving my technique with each repetition. I think I am very close. That's why I've come, why I'm taking the risk. I think I've found the key to achieving it."

"I'm all ears."

"It won't be enough to make you believe me."

"As a journalist, what I believe is irrelevant. The information speaks for itself."

"You're wrong. What you believe is vital. This is all about you. Don't you understand yet?" he asserted.

"What you are saying is as impossible as it is interesting, without a doubt," Doctor Feinmann interrupted, "but..."

"But I must provide evidence that can be validated by all the viewers? Evidence that supports my words? Is that what you were going to say, Doctor?"

I looked at the doctor. His mouth remained open.

"Yes, those were the exact words I was going to say."

"Test me," he challenged.

Among hundreds of messages, someone in the chat wrote, "What a character. Have him say the lottery number for the 10 o'clock drawing—let's see if he gets that right 🤣." Another commented, "Have him guess how tonight's game will end. I'll bet $20 on the result he says! #MakeItRain."

"We have some requests in the chat," I stated.

"The lottery, right?"

"I'm not surprised by your guess. I would have suggested that too," I lied. Despite knowing it was the easiest resource to verify, it had surprised me.

"The drawing will be at ten o'clock tonight. By that time, I will no longer be here. I should leave before then. Still, the winning number will be 71743."

"Take note, viewer friends. Our mysterious guest has named 71743. Do you think he will be right?"

"I have no doubt," he assured me.

"On the other hand, they are asking us what the score of tonight's game will be. Do you know that too?"

"I'm not a sports almanac, but if it's necessary for you to believe me, I'll give it to you. The home team will win two to zero."

"Friends, place your bets. Who knows? Maybe this is your lucky night!"

Betting will do no good. You will never collect your prize. The day will reset before you can. The game will happen again as it has countless times. It is always the same.

"You seem very confident. Unfortunately, as you say, by the time we can verify whether it is true, you will no longer be here. If you are wrong, no one will be able to reproach you for it."

"I can prove something to you here and now, something about you," he said, sliding a folded piece of paper across the table toward me.

"What is this?"

"Open it."

I opened it. What I read left me speechless.

"Time with you is absolute."

On the paper was written the inscription on the wedding ring from the crumbled marriage that those bastards had managed to destroy along with the rest of my life. I never lost hope of recovering my past, which is why I never took the ring off. Doing so would mean accepting my defeat, and I do not lose.

"What kind of joke is this?" I snapped furiously. I could not help breaking my journalist role.

"It's what's written on your ring, isn't it?"

"How do you know this? Who are you? Who told you?" I demanded.

"You told me."

"That's a lie." I looked around searching for some complicit laughter that would reveal this was nothing more than a crude setup.

"No. It is not. That happened. But you do not remember it. Because you forget every time the day resets. Like everyone."

"There are a hundred more plausible explanations than what you are saying."

"I know. Some cousin of yours could have told me, maybe someone who attended your wedding, or perhaps a jeweler with a good memory. You are right. But what I'm saying is true. You confessed that hearing this from a stranger's mouth would have a great impact on you."

And he was right. My ring meant much more than a wedding band; it was the key element of a war that for me still hadn't ended. I never took it off. I never spoke of it.

"Show the note," someone in the chat said. "And the ring," another viewer added. In any other situation, these requests would have been reason enough to get up from my chair and leave, but I didn't. Whether true or not, I respected where I was and tried to endure the uncomfortable moment. I didn't want to be part of the spectacle.

"Here you can see what the note says," I said, bringing it close to the camera. "And this is the inscription on my ring." The ring was slow to come off. It had been a very long time since I had removed it. I felt, in a certain way, unprotected. I showed it while turning it so it could be read completely. Afterward, I quickly put it back on my ring finger. It relieved me.

The chat filled with messages ranging from the deepest surprise to the incredulous who began to discredit the program for such a crude manipulation. For many, the entire interview consisted of a previously rehearsed staging: a grotesque and poorly elaborated spectacle. I believed exactly the same thing. I would talk to the people at The Lobster when the show ended. Stupid sons of bitches. How I wanted to escape this quagmire.

"I'll admit you're capable of creating an interesting air of mystery around you. Some think this interview is nothing more than a crude setup. What do you have to say about that?"

"Those theories will debunk themselves very soon. Wait for the lottery drawing or the game result. Could that be manipulated too?"

"You are very convinced. What if you are wrong?"

"I don't contemplate that scenario. But if you like, let's return to the point I'm here for: you. It seems the ring thing hasn't surprised you, but I'm convinced that a small part of you has begun to doubt."

"What you are saying proves nothing. You cannot expect me to believe you just like that."

"I'm not looking for you to believe me. I’m trying to you wake up."

"Can you do that?"

"I woke someone before."

"And where is that someone?"

"They caught him and put him back to sleep."

"Put him to sleep?"

"You see, waking up isn't instantaneous—there are no jolts or an intense white light that suddenly makes you see. It doesn't work that way. It’s something more, how to say it, progressive. During that process, you, who for a long time have been doing the same thing over and over in each repetition, will begin to behave differently. You'll begin to have control. But regaining control will have consequences. You won't behave exactly the same, and that will resonate like an echo in here."

"What do you mean?"

"In theory, everyone trapped here behaves exactly the same in each loop, with millimetric precision. What would happen if your repetition changed slightly? What would happen to the waiter who serves you coffee at 9:00 if he serves it to you at 9:01? What time would that waiter serve the next customer? And if because of this small delay, that customer arrives a few minutes late to the newsstand where he buys the same newspaper in each repetition? What would happen then to the friendly newsstand owner's behavior? Do you understand what I'm saying? In here, a small change resonates very strongly. They detect these alterations and try to reverse them. They try to 'put to sleep' those who cause them."

"Who are 'they'?"

"They're the ones who don't want anything to change in here."

"In here?"

"In this loop. If time repeats, and there is someone pursuing those who, like me, are aware, why do you think that might be?"

"I wouldn't know how to answer that."

"I think that, for a reason I don't know, they're protecting this. They want everything to stay the same. I sense that changes don't sit well with it."

"But those people are trapped too."

"No, I don't think so."

"Are you saying there is a place outside this reality you are describing?"

"That is what I believe, yes. And there are clues that support what I am saying."

"What kind of clues?"

"You see, those people are like you and me. They are not different from us. But I have seen them appear before my eyes. I have seen them do things we could perfectly well call magic."

"Magic?"

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

"I don't follow."

"Let me put it another way. If this day repeats over and over, and, according to my supposition, there is another place—let's call it 'outside'—where time follows its normal cycle, what year do you think it is there?"

"And how could I know that?"

"You do not know, and neither do I. We have no reference. But if time passes, humanity advances, technology evolves. Are you following me?"

"Do you mean they are people coming from the future?"

"They come from the present. But time for us has been anchored on a specific day, going in circles, moving from the end to the beginning enclosed in this temporal bubble, while for others it continues walking forward. Time passes; the present is much more distant than this day in February 2033 where we find ourselves."

"And why are you telling me all this?"

"Because when you wake up, as I was saying, you won't have a flash and see everything clearly. Everything won't fit together like pieces of a puzzle. You'll have small scraps of memories. Sensations that you've lived something similar before. It'll take you a while to understand it. Time you don't have. The echo of this conversation is impacting thousands of viewers. It's very big. Soon they'll come, and before that happens, you must get out of here. You must trust your instinct. If they understand you've woken up, they'll come for you too—they'll try to put you back to sleep."

"And if they do not succeed?"

"Then your fate would be even worse. That's why I've chosen you. You're perceptive and resourceful. You pay attention. You have qualities that, if you activate them and put them into action as soon as you begin to perceive those small signals that make you understand you've awakened, my mission will have succeeded."

The truth is the story had its hook. It was convoluted and contained enough ingredients that, despite how incredible it might seem, I couldn't ignore it. I looked down for a second to check the audience on the stream. We were breaking all records. Without a doubt, The Lobster had devised content that worked excellently well. I just had to continue the interview. Let myself go, assume that everything he was telling me could be true. I'd have time to talk to those responsible and let them know my disapproval of not knowing anything about this beforehand. Although, thinking about it, I understood why they hadn't told me. I would have flatly refused to do a fake interview with the sole objective of generating more audience. My principles were different and far ahead.

"And how will you wake me up?" I continued.

"I only intend to plant a seed within you. I could talk about your past, but I think, given your level of skepticism, it wouldn't help, despite being able to provide data that few would know. You could excuse what you hear by saying some things are common knowledge and others could have been told to me by some acquaintance of yours, as with your ring. Therefore, I propose we go to the concrete."

"To the concrete?"

"I have lived this day many times. Enough times to compile interesting information."

"From today?"

"From today. From what has happened, and from what will happen."

"I'm listening attentively," I said, hoping that, as he said, he would get down to ‘the concrete’.

"Well, let's go to the beginning of today. Despite starting work at three in the afternoon, you like to get up early. You woke up at 6:50 today, ten minutes before your alarm went off. Either I'm right or you lied to me, because that is what you told me."

I did not respond, although it was exactly what had happened. How could he know?

"Like every morning," he continued, "you check your phone. No interesting job offers, no responses from those you'd already applied to. This"—he said, referring to the show—"isn't your place. You want to change, but for now, it's what there is. Better this than nothing. Your exact words were: 'I'm dying to get out of this quagmire.'"

"I'm very satisfied with my work at this outlet. I have no intention of moving from here," I lied. Those would be exactly the words that would come out of my mouth. "Why am I confused?" I asked myself. "Nothing he's saying makes any sense at all, and yet, what is this feeling? Am I starting to believe him?"

"You told me you'd say that."

"I wasn't wrong, then," I said ironically.

"You know yourself very well," he responded with the same irony. "You ate alone, at home. Like almost every day. Eating out isn't in your plans if you want to make it to the end of the month."

"Look, I'm not going to fall for your provocations. You're crossing, live and in front of thousands of viewers, a personal boundary, and the only thing you can achieve is trying to discredit me. I won't allow you to go there. If you continue, I'll end the interview."

"I won't continue, don't worry. There isn't much more to tell anyway. After that you arrived at work, and from there until this moment, there's little to highlight. Forgive me if I've offended you, but you will eventually understand it is necessary."

"Let's suppose I believe you. Let's suppose I accept the nonsense that I told you everything you've been saying. I don't know you at all. If you're a stranger to me today, you're a stranger at any other time. I don't see myself talking about those kinds of personal things with someone I trust, let alone with you."

"And that's where we enter the rest of the day. What hasn't happened yet. In a normal repetition, without me having altered it by coming here to tell you everything, you usually do the same thing every Thursday."

"And what am I supposed to do?" I asked, curious.

"Thursday night is your only moment in the week when you allow yourself the freedom to have a drink out." It was true. "That's where you told me everything."

"Why would I tell you anything?"

"Because I woke you up. You understood that what I was saying was true. We devised this plan in case they put you back to sleep, as finally happened. Remember I told you I'd woken someone up before? It was you."

"Me?"

"That's right. During the conversation, we agreed on a code message that you would send me from this program. A hidden signal that would make me understand that, after the reset, you still remembered. That signal never came. I understood, then, that you had been put back to sleep. After several cycles trying to define a plan, I concluded there was no other way. I'd have to expose myself, which brings me here, with you. Once you wake up, I must protect you. You must come with me—I know how to avoid those who want to trap us. There's no other way, and time is running out. We must leave now."

"Are you asking me to abandon the show and run away with a stranger?"

"That is exactly what I am telling you."

"I suppose you understand that I refuse."

"No. I don't understand, but I assumed that would happen. I'll only ask you one more time. Will you come?"

"Of course not."

"If you remember, if you manage to visualize the conversation we had, don't forget to send me the message in the next cycle. It has been a pleasure. Although it hasn't turned out as I expected, I hope it works, I hope you end up waking up. Now, if you will excuse me, I must leave. It will not be long before they come."

"We're saying goodbye to our guest now," I addressed the audience with some relief. "It has been a strange but interesting conversation."

After that, I pronounced the same closing words I repeated in every show. The on-air light went out, ending the live broadcast. I glanced at the computer, verifying that we had broken all of The Lobster's audience records. When I realized it, the guest had already left the studio. A note remained on the table. I picked it up.

"What a curious interview," the doctor said while straightening his papers, tapping them on the table. Instinctively I closed my fist tightly, protecting the note inside.

"What did you think, Doctor?"

"An outlandish character," he responded. "A clear example of a persecutory delusion. He should seek help."

"What if I told you I think this is a setup?"

"A setup?" the doctor asked.

"From the channel, from The Lobster."

"You think they would be capable?"

"I'm convinced this isn't the first time."

"It could make sense," the doctor responded, touching his chin.

"I'll talk to the channel," I told him. "I'm not willing to be part of these games."

"You will do well, Amelia. I do not agree either," he said while putting away his papers, now perfectly aligned, in a folder. "I hope it gets cleared up, and we will see each other next week."

"As long as we're not in a loop!" I responded, laughing.

"In that case, we'll see each other again today!" the doctor joked as he went out the door.

When the doctor left, I opened the note.

Amelia. Staying was imprudent, but I imagined that is what would happen. Despite the fact that I think I can plant certain doubts in you, how can you escape with someone you do not know? It was fairly obvious, but this does not end here.

From this moment on, two things can happen: you think I'm crazy, or a small part of you begins to suspect what I say might be true. They will come. They will ask you questions. If you think I'm crazy, it means I have failed; therefore, you have nothing to fear. You must be yourself.

But if on the contrary there is some suspicion within you that my story isn't madness, you must act with caution. If they detect you suspect something, however minimal, they will put you back to sleep.

If you manage to dodge them, if you manage to convince them with your arguments, you must act just as you would in each repetition, because they will not take their eyes off you until the loop resets. Until they are sure you have not woken up. It is possible that my interaction with you has altered your reality a bit, which is why I am warning you: you must forget your keys inside the studio.

A strange sensation invaded me. I remembered arriving home late, looking for my keys in my purse and realizing that being absentminded sometimes has consequences. I remembered calling an emergency locksmith, who ended up opening my door and screwing up my budget for the month. When had that happened? Was it possible I was remembering something that hadn't happened yet?

Go to the bar, as you do every Thursday. I won't be able to go—they will be watching. Act normally. Follow your routine, and when you get home, do what anyone without keys is supposed to do in front of their house door. From there to bed is one step. The loop will reset while you sleep. I will wait for your message in the next show.

"Miss Haart?" Two men elegantly dressed in fitted suits that seemed to have been tailored by the best tailors suddenly addressed me. How had they entered?

"Who are you?" I asked, hiding the note again, crumpling it inside my fist.

"We have some questions," they said.

After arriving at the studio, I took my seat and began my routine. I took out my notepad, noted the date on a clean page, as I always did: February seventeenth, 2033. New day, new page. Keeping my notebook tidy clearly reflected my meticulous way of being, always trying to maintain control.

Finally, I adjusted my microphone, turned on the laptop, and when the on-air light came on, I began my presentation while touching my bare finger, where I always wore my ring. Some people need a pen while they talk, some need to put their hands together but only make contact with their fingertips, like a middle-class politician. I needed my ring, but not this time.

"Good evening, and welcome, once again this Thursday, to Revelations. The space where you are the protagonist."

"My name is Amelia Haart, and I'm here to listen to your story. Because we all have something to tell. I'm convinced you do too. If you have lived an extraordinary experience, something unusual, or something you never dared to tell because of the consequences it might have, this is your place.

"This program was born precisely to give voice to all these stories. You have nothing to worry about—we won't judge you here. We'll listen to you attentively, and with rigor, supported by our experts, we'll try to help you find an explanation, if one exists.

"We will do so, as you know, on two great and solid pillars: respect and privacy. We, mere hosts, can only provide the perfect stage so you can feel free enough to be honest with all our viewers. You provide the rest. Because there are many stories, but only a few extraordinary ones. And I'm sure yours is in this second category.

"Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Revelations begins."

"From this moment, the lines are open. Our team will receive your calls and messages through the stream chat and our social media accounts. As you know, we cannot address all your stories. Only some will make it onto the program to be heard, and whenever we can, we will shed some light to help us all understand.

"Today we don't have a guest scheduled for our 'Live Confessions' section. If you want to come to the show and tell us your story live, contact us."

"We'll begin with the first call. Good evening."

"Hello, good evening."

"Welcome to Revelations. We want to hear your story."

"Well, you see... it'll sound ridiculous, but I..."

"Nothing is ridiculous, dear friend. Don't worry and feel at home. We're listening attentively." It wasn't the first or last person for whom verbalizing their experience was quite a challenge. They weren't used to it. They weren't used to having someone on the other side genuinely interested in what had happened to them.

"I... You see... I hear a voice. One that doesn't exist."