Dawn had yet to break. Lia curled up in the corner of her cramped apartment, the image of her mother being "erased" still echoing in her mind. That empty doorway, those vanished social media accounts—it all felt like invisible hands tearing apart the last threads of her trust in reality.
She knew the world around her was slowly being wiped clean by the Replay System. Memories and people deemed "invalid" were being stripped of their right to exist.
But she couldn't give up. Her mother's disappearance had to be more than a glitch—it had to mean something.
A notification popped up on her phone—
A message from a livestream viewer who called himself "the drifter."
He mentioned a blank zone, an edge of the city where the Replay System's reach faltered.
A place filled with "expired individuals"—those that the system couldn't fully erase.
The forgotten ones.
Her fingers trembled. A sliver of hope sparked in her chest.
Maybe the truth she was chasing was hidden there.
She pulled her coat tighter and set off toward the part of the city even the system had abandoned.
As she stepped into the dim alleys, the air reeked of mold and decay.
Footsteps echoed in the distance, whispers flickered like shadows.
She could feel unseen eyes watching.
Suddenly, a private message popped up on her screen:
"Looking for real memories? Come to Irwin Street. Someone is waiting."
Lia took a deep breath and moved toward the street—strange, yet somehow familiar.
At the city's southwestern edge lay the Old Port, the final stop on the metro line.
Once bustling with factories and markets, now it was a fragment cut from the map.
Its street names have long since been removed from any navigation system.
She slung her bag over her shoulder, slipped past a gray fence, and entered the area where Replay's signal flickered. No livestream. No sync. Her screen flashed:
⚠️ Signal unstable. Data sync failed.
Following the address scribbled on a mysterious postcard, she found an old photo studio.
A young man sat outside, a vintage camera strapped to his back, wearing a worn-out beret and an alert expression.
Lia held up a faded photo.
"Did you take this?"
He glanced up, eyes scanning her. Then—click.
He snapped her picture.
"Not for storage," he said quietly. "Just proof you were here."
He led her through narrow alleys and into an abandoned subway exit.
It opened into a hidden world—
Old billboards turned into beds, walls lined with hand-drawn portraits, notes, and cassette tapes.
No devices are connected to the network.
Only the scent of ink, kerosene, and humanity.
"Welcome to the Street of the Lost," the photographer whispered.
About a dozen people lived here:
A deaf old woman, a boy who painted with matchsticks, and a man who recorded his dreams onto vinyl.
They were "glitches"—individuals Replay couldn't fully register or erase.
"We call ourselves the Lost," he said.
Lia stood among them, staring at yellowed drawings on the wall:
Images of disasters, missing children's smiling faces—
Some she'd seen in screenshots from her livestream, long gone from the system itself.
"We're not non-existent," a middle-aged woman murmured.
"Just not 'real enough' for Replay."
"Replay doesn't archive reality," the photographer added.
"Only the version that's allowed to recognize."
They showed her new ways to preserve memory:
– Writing recollections in ink on easily-faded paper.
– Retelling events by voice, then having someone else recreate them through drawing.
– Tapping rhythms on abandoned railways, using footsteps to warn or reveal truth.
Lia listened, learned. In the dark, she began to relearn how to remember someone.
She thought of all her screenshots, notes, and archived links—
In the system, a command could erase them all.
But here, one photo was a battle against forgetting.
"If Replay can't remember you," the photographer asked,
"How will you leave a trace?"
Lia looked at the curtain scrawled with names and symbols.
Each one represented someone Replay had deemed invisible.
For the first time, she understood:
It wasn't enough to investigate, repost, or archive.
She had to become the glitch.
Only by stepping outside the system could she fight it.
That night, she turned to the Lost and asked:
"Teach me. Show me how to make someone stay—your way."
The photographer nodded and handed her a rusty metal box.
"She said the same thing."
"She?" Lia froze.
He didn't answer.
Just pointed to a pile of notebooks in the corner.
Lia knelt down and opened one of them.
On the blank first page, a rushed scrawl:
"If you're reading this, I haven't disappeared yet.
Keep going. Don't trust the system. Trust what you see."
—E
Lia's heart twisted violently.
That handwriting… that signature…
It was hers.
She sprang to her feet, voice trembling:
"Is she still here? The person—E?"
An elderly woman by the fireplace slowly shook her head.
"She came once. Left that notebook. Then vanished.
She said—As long as someone reads those words, there's still hope."
Lia stared at the writing.
A wave of emotion crashed over her.
It wasn't a stranger's message—
It was a cry for help from her future self.
And for the first time, she realized—
Maybe the end had been behind her all along.
Maybe the person she'd been chasing—
Was herself.
And the Replay System had known.
And never stopped her.
Because this search—
Had already happened once before.
---
Chapter 8: Mini Skit
Lia (sitting on the floor of the Lost Ones' Street, hugging a rusty metal box, angrily tapping on her phone)
Lia:
System, can you at least tell me where my mom went?
Replay System (robotic voice):
Sorry, the subject you're searching for does not exist.
Lia:
I've crawled into the underbelly of the city, and you're still saying "does not exist"? Then what about me?
Replay System:
Your current status is marked as "irregular user." Please disconnect immediately for your mental well-being.
Lia:
…You just want me to shut up, don't you?
Replay System:
:)
(The photographer walks by and hands her a hand-drawn map.)
Photographer:
We draw our maps. At least they don't delete themselves.
Lia:
You guys are seriously old-school... I kinda respect that.