But sometimes, something more deliberate occurred. An absence so precise it was almost a presence. A memory removed not by neglect, but by intent.
I have seen it. Others have seen it, though few speak of it. It begins innocuously, a hesitation mid-sentence, a photograph that fails to hold its subject, a ledger that skips a number as if time itself recoiled. Those who witness it feel a chill, a prickling in the mind, as though reality itself has begun to edit the world without asking permission.
The patient arrived seeking an explanation. He was ordinary, unremarkable, yet the phenomena that clung to him were extraordinary. Words vanished as he spoke them; presences dissolved into a world that refused to notice.
I believed, at first, that I could study it, categorize it, and understand it. But memory is not a safe object of study when it becomes an instrument of erasure. Observation is participation. To witness is to risk disappearance.
This is the account of that patient, and of the slow, deliberate disappearance of those who encounter the unremembered. And in these pages, I record what remains, knowing full well that the act of writing may not be enough to preserve it.
Vienna waits.
And it remembers nothing.
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