Time has taken a 180-degree turn, which leads me to question the correct definition of "time". Is it the passing of seconds, or the allowance of this world for new events? If I were to believe in the latter, it would mean time has stopped for me. With no memory of how it all began, I wake up every morning to the same exact occurrences as those of the preceding day; and nobody besides me seems to notice. I can't tell if I'm in a dream, or if there's a way out, but I've looked everywhere for an explanation. Then my situation finally took a major shift—with the discovery of a golden notebook.