<18 march 2003>

I consider myself a lucky child. I'm a well-bred, good looking teen of 17 years of age. My family is something that you might consider prosperous. With our high standard of living, I always have healthy and nutrient-rich food on my plate. The family of Vargov's live in a well-off area of fancy mansions and luxurious resorts. When I was 5, we moved here - my father's investment skyrocketed, so there weren't any financial issues from then on.

This happened a couple of days ago. When my father was going to dinner with my mother, they landed themselves in a deep pit. They flew past some of the potholes, however, there was a one-story-house-sized crater in the ground, which none of them could have foresaw that it was there. Roy and Malinda Vargov aged 47 and 45 respectively had their remains found in a gruesome amalgamation of skin, bone and blood.

As the sole member of the family that is still alive and kicking, I inherited all the riches and stocks. But yet, this did nothing to numb the pain of the loss I'm to endure. Today, I woke up, finally out of my constant self-perpetuating cycle of contemplating the value of a life, eating and going back to sleep. I began this diary to try to record my feelings…

Wait. This diary was supposed to be brand new, why is something written here? This is awfully like my own writing… I don't think I wrote down anything here. I just had this weird dream, where I was in a strange place, filled with countless books and orbs of light. What is it I'm reading? I wrote the exact same thing! Strangely, the contents of the diary are a scarily-accurate description of my dream. From my plans to visit my childhood house to even my first three paragraphs - everything matches what I am doing and I am about to do. I decided to overlook it - maybe I'm just overthinking this.

I'm sitting in my car right now, about to go to Soho. I think I should get a watch now, it should come useful some time in the future.

I arrived at my previous place of living, with a new watch on my wrist - nothing fancy, just a matte-black watch with white accents and silvery metal hands. Noone has been there ever since. When I first arrived, both extremes of the emotions rushed back to me. There still lies the ball I used to kick as a kid. Although it is deflated, I still decided to thro…

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But why? I remember writing this, but for a fact, I know that I didn't write this yet. WHAT IS HAPPENING? I remember the scent, remember that I already threw the ball into the trunk. Has this already happened? Or yet to happen? If so, was it actually me who wrote this in the future? Right now I have more questions than answers. Wishing for answers, I came down the mysterious ladder to the basement of the house to a library.

As I started to think - the detail of the writing in the diary is far too great. As almost if someone lived through that. I probably should be careful right about now. Me, or the future me, I'd say, fell unconscious, failing to capture the change of the environment. But as I come down, I don't feel anything weird. Maybe it's because I already lived through this? No, no, that does not matter now, I need to focus on recording the details.

When I just wrote my last sentence, everything turned to void. Seems like my future self really did put me in a precarious situation. But unlike that time, I am just fine. Now I'm sure that the green book is the key to my questions.

The green book lay open in my hands, its pages rustling with an otherworldly energy. As I read through the details of its contents, it struck me that this wasn't just a dusty book. The words on the pages seemed to be a living, breathing history of not just my past, but also of times and events I had no memory of experiencing. It was as if this book was a window into alternate realities, each page a different possibility, a different 'what if'.

I turned the pages, each one bringing a new revelation. One page showed a life where my parents had never perished, another where I had a sibling I never knew. But what intrigued me the most was a section towards the end of the book, where the text became unclear, almost as if it was waiting to be written. As I held my hand outstretched with my trusty pen in hand, I put the nib to the blank page, hesitating for a moment as the weight of possibility hung in the air.

Then, without warning, the air in front of me rippled, and a window-like apparition materialised, floating in the timeless void.