To time, we are nothing more than playthings.
Every day, we live in the space it controls, hoping to turn the tables against the odds.
Within the time allotted, I die over and over, each time split into another period and meeting different versions of them, with different personalities but similar interests.
I don’t know when I became numb to death.
After so many splits, not one has brought about a result I’m satisfied with.
Can time really change a person’s mind?
A momentary whim has trapped me in a cycle through countless different stretches of time. Why, no matter what I do, can’t I change what happened?
When I open my eyes again, I’m sitting in a wheelchair. I look at the scenery outside and slip the same notebook beneath the blue-and-white striped pillow.
At that moment, someone knocks on the door.
This time, she is the one who comes to see me.
She seems different, yet somehow the same.
Another stretch of time begins. When will it end?
I can’t get an answer from it...
