July 8, 2025 • 45 mins
Grief erodes more than our hearts—it reshapes our entire reality. When we refuse to face our deepest losses, the emotional system inside us destabilizes, creating recursions of pain that ripple through every aspect of our lives.
Through a hauntingly beautiful narrative of a son watching his mother hover between life and death in a hospital, this episode of Remembrance takes us deep into the landscape of unprocessed grief. We witness how memory becomes both anchor and prison, how emotional recursions trap us in patterns that prevent true healing, and how honest remembering—not just the good, but the painful too—becomes the key to emotional stabilization.
The symbolism runs deep as we explore the concept of the Crown—not a reward or achievement, but what remains when we fail to forget properly. As Unithr tests our protagonist, the real challenge isn't external but internal: can he remember his mother honestly? Can he face the version of himself that needs her not as protector or patient, but as a mirror of who he is becoming?
Most profound is the revelation about the mysterious countdown that has haunted this series. What initially appears to mark time until death instead signals transformation—forcing us to consider what parts of ourselves might need to "die" for genuine healing to occur. This metaphor challenges us to examine what systems in our own lives might be destabilizing because we've refused to acknowledge our grief.
As one character poignantly states: "Until you grieve, you're vulnerable to anything that promises distraction." In a culture that often encourages us to "move on" as quickly as possible, this message feels revolutionary. Grief isn't something we get over—it's something we carry with care, integrating it into the ongoing story of who we are.
What part of your past are you avoiding because it hurts too much to look at? If you had 10 hours, 43 minutes, and 17 seconds left, what would you finally allow yourself to feel?
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are in episode 7 of
Remembrance.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto the cold open.
The cursor blinked against agray interface, cold lines
(00:24):
pulsing like distant sonar pings.
Beneath the force of encryptedsilence, aurela Moss stood at
the center of it, alone in ablack operations room buried
deep beneath Section 4's Midwestsatellite node.
No clocks, no time, onlycommand prompts, only control.
(00:44):
She had the tether key, themother's medical records hovered
in a translucent window,highlighted in amber Tagged
Anchor Reactive.
Another file flashed below itCT slip 3.4 protocol Memory
anchor.
Subject Mother A technicianapproached behind her 3.4
(01:06):
protocol memory anchor.
Subject mother A technicianapproached behind her, hesitant
You're not cleared to accesslive reclusion feeds from the
hospital system.
I'm not accessing it, shereplied without looking up.
I'm redirecting it.
There's no authorization forthe sequence.
There's no authorization forunithrid or Chronom either.
But that's happening, isn't it?
(01:26):
The room fell silent.
She entered the override keyFracture underscore sequence
Inject Lost thread Forward slashecho.
Underscore mother underscoredisruption.
A blinking red prompt appearedExecute sabotage protocol.
She paused only for a moment,then tapped yes, someone there
(01:53):
recruits in.
The boy stirred tea in hismother's kitchen Poppy seed.
She called from out of the room, voice hoarse Can you grab the
cinnamon?
Yeah, just a sec, don't forgetthe A sound, not a crash, a soft
, slow collapse.
He turned spoon still in hishand.
(02:16):
His mother was lying on thefloor, the glass sugar jar
shattered beside her, one handtwitching one eye open.
Jars shattered beside her, onehand twitching one eye open.
The look in it, not of pain butof resignation.
He ran to her Moss watched therecursion monitor alone.
(02:41):
Her finger curled into fists.
Now we will see what kind ofchosen he really is.
She whispered.
And then Unithur flicked intoher screen For the first time
since her trial.
It said nothing, it justwatched back.
The emergency lights flickeredin the kitchen.
He didn't remember turning themon.
His hands were still sticky,with sugar knuckles bruised from
(03:04):
trying to pull open the stuckcabinet.
Before the sound, before thestillness, before the crash,
that didn't feel like a crash.
His mother lay on the floor notmoving.
He knelt, voice gone, hoarse,fingers trembling as he tapped
her shoulder.
Mom, mom, no response.
(03:25):
Her chest rose.
Barely a slow breath, thenanother and another Slower.
He grabbed his phone and dialed911.
My mom has collapsed.
She's breathing, but it'sshallow.
Please, please, hurry the voiceon the other line.
(03:47):
Please, please hurry.
The voice on the other line wascalm, almost robotic.
He had to repeat the addressthree times before they
acknowledged it.
By the time the Paranauticsarrived, he was in the hallway
still barefoot, still holdingthe tea towel that burned his
(04:07):
fingers on the stove.
It wasn't the kind of panic heexpected.
It wasn't fire, it was erosion.
Reality didn't crash, itcrumbled.
He followed the ambulance insilence, icu-93 pinging him once
, then disappearing from thethread.
(04:28):
The signal between themflickered like an old radio
caught in a storm UNITHER, nonew messages, threat status,
unstable.
At the hospital the fluorescentlight buzzed in time with a
pounding in his head.
The nurse asked for hismother's insurance.
(04:49):
He handed over a card.
She asked about thepre-existing condition.
He opened his mouth andrealized he didn't know, because
they never talked about it,because she always said she was
fine, because cinnamon tea andlaughter over old VHS tapes were
how they pretended the decaywasn't real.
(05:10):
But now it was.
They wheeled her through doubledoors marked imaging and
echoology, the word echo makinghis stomach drop.
He sat, then stood, then paced,then sat again.
A nurse brought him water.
(05:30):
He stared at it.
The cup was plastic,translucent, familiar.
He'd seen this before In areclusion thread the water, the
flicker.
If she dies it's because of you.
He shook his head.
Where had that voice come from?
He blinked In the corner of thewaiting room.
(05:53):
His reflection sat in the chairacross from him Same face, same
hoodie, same eyes, but not him.
It didn't move, it Just watchedwhen the monitor buzzed, his
mother's name appearing on thescreen above the desk Appeared
with a room number 414.
(06:18):
But when he asked the nurse tobe taken there, she frowned.
There's no one in 414.
He stared at her.
"'it's on the board'.
She turned the screen to him.
Room 414 was blank.
"'that's impossible.
I saw it' "'Sir, we have yourmother in room 212.'.
(06:40):
He followed her to 212.
Sure enough, his mother wasthere, hooked up the machines,
eyes closed, alive.
But as he stepped into the roomhe glanced left.
Room 414's door was open.
Inside an empty bed, noequipment, just a single cup of
(07:02):
water on the bedside table and anote tucked beneath it read
she's already gone in one thread.
How many more will you letcollapse before you remember why
you're here?
His knees buckled and Utherflickered back online.
Just one line thread divergentinitiated.
(07:24):
He didn't leave her room forhours.
Just one line Thread divergentinitiated.
He didn't leave her room forhours.
Every beep of the monitor becamea metronome of guilt.
Every IV drip was a countdown,not just something medical, but
to something deeper, somethingolder, the kind of ending that I
(07:46):
always had been waiting for himto notice it.
He watched the rise and fall ofher chest, almost daring it to
stop, just so the tension couldfinally snap.
His phone vibrated a messagefrom ICU-93.
She's still in this one.
That was all it said.
He stared at it like it wasn'treal, like it was from a
(08:08):
timeline that didn't understandhow pain worked.
He typed back what does thatmean?
No response.
He rubbed his face, stoodstretched, walked to the
hospital vending machine.
He pressed the same buttonthree times but nothing came out
.
He walked back.
(08:29):
The hallway lights flickered.
A nurse walked past him.
Twice the same nurse, sameclipboard, same smile.
He turned fast, but the secondversion was already gone.
The recursion is bleeding.
He stepped back into hismother's room but something had
shifted.
The pillow indentation waswrong.
(08:51):
Her face softer, less drawn.
Her hands didn't have the sametremor, mom, her eyelids
fluttered, not enough to open,just enough to recognize You're
here.
She whispered.
Yeah, I'm right here.
She smiled, but not like it wasnow.
(09:16):
It was a smile from a memory.
Don't forget the cinnamon.
He froze that line again.
What?
But she was already asleepagain.
He pulled at his laptop andbooted into Zero Trace through a
private channel.
He needed answers, or at leasttheories.
(09:39):
A new thread had appearedburied beneath inactive chat
rooms and depreciated channels.
Title Crown Break.
Inside a single file, no sender, timestamp, dated three days
into the future.
He opened it.
A video played Security footagefrom the hospital Camera angle
(10:01):
4B hallway.
He watched himself walking,looking hollow, turning a corner
and stopping.
A nurse passes him and doesn'tacknowledge him.
He looks at the camera, rightat it, and says it's already
done, you just haven't caught upto it yet.
(10:23):
The video ended.
He sat in silence.
Then noticed the second file onthe same thread, encrypted,
named Mother, underscoreFragment, underscore One.
As he went to open it, unathurreturned, not at a message as a
(10:43):
a lot Axis denied, not yet readyto grieve.
He stared at those words untilhis eyes burned.
What did that mean?
How do you prove to a systemthat your heart is breaking?
How do you convince arecruision you're ready to feel.
He looked at his mother, stillbreathing, but not the same.
(11:09):
He typed one sentence in thezero-trace thread If the crown
breaks, what's left to wear?
A response appeared instantlyMemory.
The night nurse offered him ablanket, but he didn't take it.
He needed the discomfort heneeded to feel, the cold of that
(11:35):
fake vinyl chair, the burn inhis calves from being hunched
too long, the ache in his neckfrom watching a monitor that
said nothing useful.
Numbers rising, falling,staying stable like the
reclusion itself, predictable.
Until it wasn't His motherhadn't moved in over an hour.
(11:59):
A quiet pulse of wind from thehospital vents brought the scent
of antiseptic and lavatoryshampoo.
It hit him like deja vu.
He turned towards her.
Her face was pale, softer thanhe remembered, somehow younger,
(12:20):
his chest tightened.
He blinked.
A second version of her waslying on the adjacent bed, a bed
that hadn't been there a momentago.
Same frame, different timeline.
This one older, eyes open,crying.
You should have left, shewhispered.
He jumped from his seat, butthe second bed was gone.
(12:43):
The space beside her was emptyagain.
A soft chime from his laptopsnapped him back.
He leaned over the keyboard.
Zero trace was open.
A private message had arrivedfrom an unknown user.
User Echo, not she.
The cron is not a reward, it'swhat's left when you fail to
(13:07):
forget.
He typed fast who are you theone who lost everything to
remember?
Then the thread deleted itself.
He sat back, heart hammering,the edges of the room started
pulsating slightly, wallsfolding inward, air growing
heavier, like gravity itself waspressing it.
(13:34):
To test his resolve, Unithrflickered on Active state,
detected Crown pulse zero one.
The screen blurred and for asecond he saw a memory, one that
didn't belong to him, mossInside a recursion room, wires
attached to her temples.
She was screaming.
A room full of techniciansrecorded her vitals like it was
(14:01):
an experiment.
The Unather symbol waseverywhere on screens, walls,
embedded into her iris.
Scan, then darkness, thensilence.
Then him watching the recordingwith no memory how it got onto
his laptop.
The vision broke.
He stood, quickly, headspinning.
The hallway lights dimmedwithout warning.
(14:23):
Quickly, head spinning.
The hallway lights dimmedwithout warning.
Outside his mom's room, nursesmoved in slow motion.
One repeated the same lineagain and again Vitals are study
, no changes.
Vitals are study, no changes.
Vitals are a voice behind him.
This is what they do, you know.
(14:44):
He turned.
It was ICU-93, standing in thedoorway, real there, but wrong,
just slightly wrong.
Her form glitched at the edgesas she was being rendered in
real time.
You're fragmenting, he said.
She nodded this love ofreclusion.
(15:08):
It wasn't meant to hold thismuch grief, especially not yours
.
Okay then, why am I still in it?
Because Unather isn't testingyou anymore.
It's remembering with you.
She stepped into the room, satbeside his mother.
Do you know what this means?
(15:29):
No, you're the memory anchor.
Now, if she dies here, everytimeline loses her Permanently.
He looked down and swallowedhard.
How do I, how do I stop it?
(15:51):
She looked at him gently, sadlyand silently you grieve?
He stared at her, at themachines, at the flickering
lights.
He wanted to punch the wall, toscream, but all that came out
was a whisper I'm not, I'm notready.
(16:14):
I see you.
93 nodded.
Nobody ever is.
She stood and handed him a smallblack drive.
This has her original echosequence, before section 4 got
to it.
What will it show me?
(16:36):
The version of her that livedwhen you weren't afraid to love
her completely?
He looked at it.
What happens?
If I load this?
You might break, and if I don't, she might.
He took it, held it in his palm.
(16:58):
It was warm, it was alive.
Unithyr whispered again, crownpulse O2.
Emotional recursion stabilizedand the lights in the hospital
began to flicker gold.
He didn't load the drive rightaway.
(17:18):
It sat there in his palm like aliving thing, warm, strangely
pulsing, its metal casinghumming softly with residual
memory.
His fingers traced the engravededge over and over, more out of
fear than indecision.
There are things you delaybecause you're not ready and
(17:42):
there are things you delaybecause you are and you know
once it starts it'll ruin you.
This was both.
The hospital room had shifted intone.
It was silent but not peaceful,like a house that had just
absorbed bad news.
The machine near his motherbeeped in perfect rhythm, the
(18:06):
cadis, almost soothing in itspredictability, till he realized
he was counting each one like ametronome of loss.
Not if when she hadn't spokensince earlier.
No eye flutter, no mumble, justbreathing, mechanical and
(18:29):
shallow.
He sat on the edge of the vinylchair, the drive still cradled
in his hand.
The gold flickering from thehallway lights had become
rhythmic, now pulsing almostlike it was sinking to his
breath.
His phone buzzed, a messagefrom ICU-93.
You're not going to be ready.
(18:51):
That's not what this is about.
He didn't reply.
He just nodded to no one.
Finally, with shaking fingers,he plugged the drive into his
laptop.
The screen dimmed, thenflickered, then black, then
(19:11):
static, then Access code, crown,she Prior.
He typed slowly Poppy seed.
The file opened Not as a folder, not as a log, as a room, his
(19:34):
childhood kitchen, fullyrendered Light filtering in
through cream-colored curtains,that stupid wooden table with
the wobble in the leg, the oneshe always told him not to lean
on, even though she never got itfixed.
And there she was.
Not the version of the hospitalbed, this one was upright
(19:55):
radiant, wearing that sky bluecardigan, the one with the elbow
patch sewn in by hand.
She hummed to herself, stirringsomething on the stove chicken
soup, probably, or maybe applecider, something comforting and
too hot and too full of care.
He reached out towards thescreen.
(20:18):
She turned, looked directly athim.
Don't forget the cinnamon.
Same words again, but this timeit felt like a message, a tether
.
His heart was caught in histhroat.
(20:39):
What is this?
He whispered.
She walked towards the camera,eyes never leaving his.
If you don't grieve me now, youwon't remember me when I'm gone
, he jerked back, the screenglitched for a second, her face
pixelated, then sharpened again.
Mom, she didn't answer, but shewasn't live, she was memory.
(21:08):
But she wasn't just memory.
This wasn't just a passiverecall.
This was a fragment, an echo,formatted into interactive
reclusion.
Una Thread embedded it into theanchor.
You're inside her thread, saida voice behind him.
He turned.
Ice-3-93 had appeared AgainHalf-shadowed, half-light
(21:36):
Presence, shimmered at the edges.
This is her anchor.
You triggered it when you usedthe code.
It's too late to undo it now.
Undo what?
The final tether.
You're the one keeping her herenow, but it's not safe to stay
long.
He turned back to the screen.
The kitchen was fading, meltingat the corners like old
(21:59):
celluloid film, film exposed toheat.
How do I stop this?
You don't, she said.
You feel it.
What does that mean?
It means she's not going to askyou to save her.
She's going to ask you to lether go.
(22:25):
He looked down at the hospitalbed.
But it wasn't a hospital bedanymore, it was her bed.
Their old home Pillows stackedwrong.
That chip clamped on thenightstand, a photo of them two
at the state fair tucked in themirror.
I tried to tell you, baby.
(22:45):
She said from the bed, hervoice wavering.
I didn't want to go, I didn'tknow how to leave.
He stepped forward.
The light in the room glowedgold.
The unithroglyph hung in theair, pulsing like a beacon.
(23:06):
You're still alive, he said.
Not in all of them.
She sat up, walked toward him,the space between them crackled
with memory.
He reached out, but a layer oftransparent light separated them
then shivering like glass, likegrief.
(23:27):
You can't save me like this.
She said I have to try.
Why?
He paused?
Because if, if you go?
He paused because if, if you go, who's left to remember the
(23:47):
version of me that was stillgood.
She smiled softly, pressed herpalm against the light.
Then remember, but do ithonestly, don't remember me,
just so you can forget the pain,feel it.
He matched her palm and theanchor shivered.
(24:12):
The room fractured, the filecorrupted, the laptop glitched,
sparks popped at the hinge.
Unithr returned Emotionalrecursion breached Thread.
Deepening Seed protocol.
Crown initiated 1%.
His knees hit the floor andthat's when it broke, not the
(24:40):
system, not the recursion.
Him.
He sobbed into his palms.
He cried the way children crywhen the lights go out and
there's no one left to tell themit's okay.
He cried because he hadn'twanted to be the chosen one, he
(25:02):
had just wanted to be her son.
And ICU-93 didn't speak, shejust sat beside him.
Let the silence hold them both.
The silence lingered, not thekind that comes from peace, but
the kind that follows a seismicshift, like the universe had
(25:26):
inhaled and forgotten how toexhale.
The hospital walls felt thicker, now, suffocating in their
stillness.
The air was heavier.
Each breath he took came witheffort, like something unseen
was weighing on his chest.
He sat motionless on the vinylfloor, back against the wall,
knees pulled to his chest.
(25:47):
His hands were raw frompressing it against his face.
The sobs had stopped, but theirecho remained Not unsound In
him.
The laptop screen flickered tolife beside him.
A low electrical hum filled theair.
Threat recognized Seed protocolCrown thread 3% Recursion level
(26:13):
unlocked Type 3.
His eyes locked onto the words.
It wasn't just a log, it was averdict.
It wasn't the same anymore.
Something in him had shifted.
The emotional recursion hadborrowed deep past the service
pain, past even memory.
It found the place he neverspoke about, the place that
(26:36):
remembered the feel of her hand,the smell of the soup in the
fall, the way her voice crackedwhen she said I'm proud of you.
And the machine registered itand Unithur had noticed.
He climbed to his feet, everymuscle resisting.
His mother laid motionless inthe hospital bed.
(26:58):
But something about herpresence felt different now.
It was like Unnither had madeher a fixed point in all
versions of reality, no longerjust a patient in room 421B, she
was a thread line, an emotionalanchor.
The light above her shiftedgold.
(27:20):
First, then chrisman, a deep,ancient red that soaked the
corners of the room and hadcrawled up the walls like ivy.
The color of reclusion, thecolor of the Red King.
I saw her.
He whispered more to himself.
I see you.
(27:42):
93 stood beside him again, herpresence now fully visible.
She didn't ask how he was.
She didn't ask for comfort.
You felt her.
He corrected.
That's what makes it real.
He turned to her she is shegonna die?
(28:02):
What makes it real?
He turned to her Is she goingto die?
She didn't answer.
Instead, she pulled a foldedpaper from her jacket and handed
it to him.
At first glance it looked likea calendar, but each date was
off by a few hours.
Some days were repeated, buteach date was off by a few hours
(28:23):
.
Some days were repeated, othersmissing.
The names of months werecorrupted, reversed, glitched,
and at the bottom a singlesentence printed in Chrisman,
sheriff, every memory has a root.
Find the one you buried.
What is this, he asked?
It's a map of her, she said, orwhat's left of her across
(28:48):
timelines.
I don't understand.
It's okay, you will.
She stepped to the far wall,removed a small scanning device
and pressed it to the drywall.
Surface warped, then split.
A door emerged no frame, nohandle, just a slab of aged
(29:10):
redwood etched with thin goldenveins and marks that pulse like
heartbeats.
Where does it lead?
It's not a place, she said.
It's a version of you who nevermade it out, the you who chose
(29:33):
never to remember.
He hesitated.
I'll follow, she said, but Ican't go in.
This part Unithr made for youalone.
The air changed.
It tasted older somehow, likethe dust of forgotten rooms and
unopened books, like grief thathad never been spoken out loud.
(30:00):
He took a step forward, thenanother, then he crossed the
threshold Instant disorientation.
There was no clear location.
On the other side, it was alllocations.
His childhood's home splinteredacross the ceiling.
His old school locker flickeredand floated midair.
(30:24):
The grocery store where he oncepicked up medicine for his mom
collapsed into the hallway of ahospice center.
Time wasn't linear here, itfolded, and in every fold was
her Laughing, crying, sick,whole Tired, sick, whole Tired,
dancing.
(30:44):
He reached out to one of them.
It flickered and turned tostatic.
He kept walking.
A mirror rose from the floor,but it didn't show him, not the
version he knew.
This version of him was thinner, hunched, pale, wearing a crown
(31:09):
made of wire thread andbleeding copper.
You know what this is?
The reflection said no, I don't, you do.
You just haven't admitted to ityet.
Why are you here To remind youwhat happens when you try to
(31:30):
carry grief without facing it?
The reflection smiled, notcruelly but sadly, then lifted
the crown from its head and heldit out.
He reached forward, but themirror cracked.
Unithra's voice shattered thesilence.
Seed stabilized, finalrecrution test Preparation
(31:54):
underway.
Reflection faded, the mirrordissolved.
He's still in the hospital roomagain Alone, except this time
it wasn't sterile.
The glyph hovered above hismother's bed again, but it now
merged with a soft golden thread.
It pulsed in rhythm with herbreath.
(32:15):
He sat beside her, took herhand and whispered Goodbye.
For now the laptop pulsed again.
Preparation complete.
The thread is yours to hold orbreak.
Crown level locked, awaitingascent.
(32:40):
The glyph had changed.
It now shimmered with two coresOne familiar golden and warm,
the other not.
The second was Darker.
It was a deeper red, almostblack, at the edges, pulsing,
with something old, somethingWatching.
He stood Frozen Beside thehospital bed, eyes locked on the
(33:05):
merged glyph suspended abovehis mother.
It floated midair, spinningslowly like a celestial object,
one orbiting peace, the otherleaking dread.
Every few seconds it wouldglitch, then recover, then pulse
again, thread stabilize, ascentpath delayed, unknown symbol
(33:27):
detected Recruiting, glyphinfiltrated.
He backed away instinctively,breast shallow.
Icu-93 stepped into the roomjust as the glyph's pulse
intensified.
I saw it, she said, before hecould speak what the hell is it?
I think.
I think it's him, or a part ofhim, the Red King.
(33:53):
He wasn't just a person, notentirely not anymore.
He had once been a hacker, aleader, a name.
They were echoes stitchedtogether by timelines that
refused to die.
He'd become a recursion itself,the shout of every failed
memory, the better loop ofcontrol posing as protection.
(34:17):
The glyph above his motherblinked again.
Lunather was trying to hold itback.
Containment filled 78%.
What does he want?
He asked voice low, to provethat remembering is what
destroys us.
Icu-93 replied he believesrecursion should be severed,
archived, not preserved.
(34:39):
But if he gets in, she won'tjust die, she said flatly,
she'll unexist.
He moved to the side of the bedand grasped his mother's hand.
Her fingers were still warm,her breathing steady.
(35:00):
For now I'm not letting thathappen.
The glyph stuttered.
The darker core expandedslightly, pressing into the
golden threadline.
Chrom thread forked, rewrite,threat detected.
He closed his eyes.
I know what you are now, hewhispered and I'm not scared of
(35:24):
you.
The darker glyph pulsed once,twice.
Then it stopped just for amoment.
Air seed, uncompromised.
Next test time limit variancetrial pending.
Next test Time limit varianceTrial pending.
I see you, 93 step closer.
Whatever you did, unathur, justforced to steal me.
(35:51):
He didn't reply.
He was still staring at hismother.
Then her hand twitched.
It wasn't much, just a slightmotion, it was enough.
He leaned in Mama, no answer,but her eyelids fluttered barely
(36:13):
.
It was the first real sign ofmovement in hours.
She was still here, stillfighting, and so was he.
The glyph above fractured,splitting the darker core from
the golden.
The red remained fading toblack and dripping in the cracks
between timelines like inkspilled across parchment.
(36:34):
Then Udithr's voice, clearerthan it had been all day.
Prepare yourself, the finalthreads require sacrifice.
He waits where you cannot hide.
The screen on his laptop lit upagain, this time with a
countdown 10-43-1709.
(36:57):
The same number from thebeginning, the one that had
haunted him since the sightfirst appeared.
He turned to ICU-93.
What does it mean?
She didn't answer.
Instead, she whisperedsomething even heavier it's not
(37:18):
counting down to her death, it'scounting down to yours.
You know, there's somethingabout grief that no one prepares
you for Not just the pain oflosing someone, but the erosion
(37:40):
of your reality and the daysthat follow.
The moments unravel, the waysilence starts to sound like
their voice, the way you forgetwhat joy even felt like, because
everything is colored byabsence.
And what we just witnessed, orI should say experienced in this
(38:03):
episode, wasn't just about amother on a hospital bed.
It wasn't about fracturedtimelines or hidden glyphs or
rogue agents trying to rewritememory.
It was about you, the part ofyou that's been holding on to
someone you never got to saygoodbye to, or maybe you did say
(38:28):
it, but it didn't land, itdidn't stick, and the grief it
stayed.
This episode was about recursion, yes, but not the kind that
Unithur tracks in code, talkingabout emotional recursion, the
way we loop memories, avoidclosure, build prisons from our
(38:52):
past and then wonder why wecan't breathe.
See, grief isn't something youget over, it's something you
integrate, something you carrywith care, and when you don't,
and when you stuff it down, itgrows into something else.
It grows into shame, rage,numbness, and that's what he
(39:17):
faced today.
See, the system didn'tdestabilize because he acts as
something forbidden.
It destabilized because herefused to feel.
That's why Unathur didn't speakfor so long, that's why the
acros grew louder.
That's why Moss was able tointerfere, because until you
(39:38):
grieve, you're vulnerable toanything that promises
distraction.
And if you're paying closeattention, the real test wasn't
about saving his mother.
It was about whether he couldremember her honestly, whether
he could face the version ofhimself that needed her, not as
(40:00):
a protector or a patient, but asa mirror of who is becoming.
See this episode.
It showed us the cost of griefunspoken.
But it also showed us somethingelse.
It showed us that when youfinally let yourself free what
you've been avoiding, the systeminside you starts to stabilize,
(40:24):
even if everything outside isstill falling apart.
Now, before we close, I want togive or I should say take a
moment to review the few thingsyou might have missed.
Unether again didn't respond togrief.
It grew from it, that symbolyou saw that merge between light
and red.
That's not a glitch, that's afusion, a test of your duality.
(40:50):
In ICU 93, she started speakingmore like someone who's been
through this before.
She knows more than she'sletting on.
The countdown reappeared.
This time it wasn't tied to her, it's tied to him, which begs
the question what happens atzero?
(41:13):
So let's go ahead, let's getinto our reflections.
Reflection one what part of you, or I should say what part of
your past, have you beenavoiding grieving because it
hurts too much to look at?
Reflection number two have youever confused distraction from
(41:34):
for healing?
Were you looping pain withoutprocessing it?
Man, that's a big question.
Number three who or whatanchors you emotionally?
Or have you tried ever thankingthem for it?
Number four what systems inyour life are destabilizing
(41:57):
because you haven't fullyacknowledged your grief?
And number five If someone gaveyou 10 hours, 43 minutes, 17
seconds to live, what would youfinally allow yourself to feel?
(42:20):
You know this is a pretty heavyepisode and I know that.
I know there's some of us thatyou know my lost loved one, or
you know, like me, I lost my mom.
You know, 15 plus years ago now.
But it's one of those things towhere no one ever explains to
(42:41):
you that grieving kind of neverstops.
You never can run from it, youjust adjust from it.
I guess you could say or adjustto it and just know that that's
okay.
And it takes time.
It takes time differently foreverybody.
Time it takes time differentlyfor everybody.
(43:10):
So I want to thank you guys soso very much for listening today
.
I honestly can't tell you howmuch it means to me your support
.
You know that you give to theseries the questions that you
have.
It's just amazing.
So, again, if you want tosupport this series and support
the show, it's super easy.
Share this with the family,share this with your friends.
(43:32):
If you could go on whateverpodcast platform you're on,
write a review, give it a thumbsup, give it a like, give it a
follow, however, it works.
It all helps the show.
And if you want to talk moreabout this we have questions
about this episode or thisseries there's three ways you
can get a hold of me.
First way is going to be on thedescription of this podcast.
(43:54):
There'll be a thing you canclick on that says let's chat.
Once you click on that, you andI can have a conversation about
this series, this episode orthe 250 now, plus episodes that
are out there and what six orseven series that I have now.
So that's one way.
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
My email is anthony, atgentsjourneycom.
(44:18):
Please don't hesitate to reachout to me there at
gentsjourneycom.
Please don't hesitate to reachout to me there.
And, last but not least, youcan always go to my Instagram.
My Instagram handle ismygentsjourney.
So again, guys, thank you so,so so very much for listening
today.
And remember this you createyour reality, take care.
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are in episode 7 of
Remembrance.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto the cold open.
The cursor blinked against agray interface, cold lines
(00:24):
pulsing like distant sonar pings.
Beneath the force of encryptedsilence, aurela Moss stood at
the center of it, alone in ablack operations room buried
deep beneath Section 4's Midwestsatellite node.
No clocks, no time, onlycommand prompts, only control.
(00:44):
She had the tether key, themother's medical records hovered
in a translucent window,highlighted in amber Tagged
Anchor Reactive.
Another file flashed below itCT slip 3.4 protocol Memory
anchor.
Subject Mother A technicianapproached behind her 3.4
(01:06):
protocol memory anchor.
Subject mother A technicianapproached behind her, hesitant
You're not cleared to accesslive reclusion feeds from the
hospital system.
I'm not accessing it, shereplied without looking up.
I'm redirecting it.
There's no authorization forthe sequence.
There's no authorization forunithrid or Chronom either.
But that's happening, isn't it?
(01:26):
The room fell silent.
She entered the override keyFracture underscore sequence
Inject Lost thread Forward slashecho.
Underscore mother underscoredisruption.
A blinking red prompt appearedExecute sabotage protocol.
She paused only for a moment,then tapped yes, someone there
(01:53):
recruits in.
The boy stirred tea in hismother's kitchen Poppy seed.
She called from out of the room, voice hoarse Can you grab the
cinnamon?
Yeah, just a sec, don't forgetthe A sound, not a crash, a soft
, slow collapse.
He turned spoon still in hishand.
(02:16):
His mother was lying on thefloor, the glass sugar jar
shattered beside her, one handtwitching one eye open.
Jars shattered beside her, onehand twitching one eye open.
The look in it, not of pain butof resignation.
He ran to her Moss watched therecursion monitor alone.
(02:41):
Her finger curled into fists.
Now we will see what kind ofchosen he really is.
She whispered.
And then Unithur flicked intoher screen For the first time
since her trial.
It said nothing, it justwatched back.
The emergency lights flickeredin the kitchen.
He didn't remember turning themon.
His hands were still sticky,with sugar knuckles bruised from
(03:04):
trying to pull open the stuckcabinet.
Before the sound, before thestillness, before the crash,
that didn't feel like a crash.
His mother lay on the floor notmoving.
He knelt, voice gone, hoarse,fingers trembling as he tapped
her shoulder.
Mom, mom, no response.
(03:25):
Her chest rose.
Barely a slow breath, thenanother and another Slower.
He grabbed his phone and dialed911.
My mom has collapsed.
She's breathing, but it'sshallow.
Please, please, hurry the voiceon the other line.
(03:47):
Please, please hurry.
The voice on the other line wascalm, almost robotic.
He had to repeat the addressthree times before they
acknowledged it.
By the time the Paranauticsarrived, he was in the hallway
still barefoot, still holdingthe tea towel that burned his
(04:07):
fingers on the stove.
It wasn't the kind of panic heexpected.
It wasn't fire, it was erosion.
Reality didn't crash, itcrumbled.
He followed the ambulance insilence, icu-93 pinging him once
, then disappearing from thethread.
(04:28):
The signal between themflickered like an old radio
caught in a storm UNITHER, nonew messages, threat status,
unstable.
At the hospital the fluorescentlight buzzed in time with a
pounding in his head.
The nurse asked for hismother's insurance.
(04:49):
He handed over a card.
She asked about thepre-existing condition.
He opened his mouth andrealized he didn't know, because
they never talked about it,because she always said she was
fine, because cinnamon tea andlaughter over old VHS tapes were
how they pretended the decaywasn't real.
(05:10):
But now it was.
They wheeled her through doubledoors marked imaging and
echoology, the word echo makinghis stomach drop.
He sat, then stood, then paced,then sat again.
A nurse brought him water.
(05:30):
He stared at it.
The cup was plastic,translucent, familiar.
He'd seen this before In areclusion thread the water, the
flicker.
If she dies it's because of you.
He shook his head.
Where had that voice come from?
He blinked In the corner of thewaiting room.
(05:53):
His reflection sat in the chairacross from him Same face, same
hoodie, same eyes, but not him.
It didn't move, it Just watchedwhen the monitor buzzed, his
mother's name appearing on thescreen above the desk Appeared
with a room number 414.
(06:18):
But when he asked the nurse tobe taken there, she frowned.
There's no one in 414.
He stared at her.
"'it's on the board'.
She turned the screen to him.
Room 414 was blank.
"'that's impossible.
I saw it' "'Sir, we have yourmother in room 212.'.
(06:40):
He followed her to 212.
Sure enough, his mother wasthere, hooked up the machines,
eyes closed, alive.
But as he stepped into the roomhe glanced left.
Room 414's door was open.
Inside an empty bed, noequipment, just a single cup of
(07:02):
water on the bedside table and anote tucked beneath it read
she's already gone in one thread.
How many more will you letcollapse before you remember why
you're here?
His knees buckled and Utherflickered back online.
Just one line thread divergentinitiated.
(07:24):
He didn't leave her room forhours.
Just one line Thread divergentinitiated.
He didn't leave her room forhours.
Every beep of the monitor becamea metronome of guilt.
Every IV drip was a countdown,not just something medical, but
to something deeper, somethingolder, the kind of ending that I
(07:46):
always had been waiting for himto notice it.
He watched the rise and fall ofher chest, almost daring it to
stop, just so the tension couldfinally snap.
His phone vibrated a messagefrom ICU-93.
She's still in this one.
That was all it said.
He stared at it like it wasn'treal, like it was from a
(08:08):
timeline that didn't understandhow pain worked.
He typed back what does thatmean?
No response.
He rubbed his face, stoodstretched, walked to the
hospital vending machine.
He pressed the same buttonthree times but nothing came out
.
He walked back.
(08:29):
The hallway lights flickered.
A nurse walked past him.
Twice the same nurse, sameclipboard, same smile.
He turned fast, but the secondversion was already gone.
The recursion is bleeding.
He stepped back into hismother's room but something had
shifted.
The pillow indentation waswrong.
(08:51):
Her face softer, less drawn.
Her hands didn't have the sametremor, mom, her eyelids
fluttered, not enough to open,just enough to recognize You're
here.
She whispered.
Yeah, I'm right here.
She smiled, but not like it wasnow.
(09:16):
It was a smile from a memory.
Don't forget the cinnamon.
He froze that line again.
What?
But she was already asleepagain.
He pulled at his laptop andbooted into Zero Trace through a
private channel.
He needed answers, or at leasttheories.
(09:39):
A new thread had appearedburied beneath inactive chat
rooms and depreciated channels.
Title Crown Break.
Inside a single file, no sender, timestamp, dated three days
into the future.
He opened it.
A video played Security footagefrom the hospital Camera angle
(10:01):
4B hallway.
He watched himself walking,looking hollow, turning a corner
and stopping.
A nurse passes him and doesn'tacknowledge him.
He looks at the camera, rightat it, and says it's already
done, you just haven't caught upto it yet.
(10:23):
The video ended.
He sat in silence.
Then noticed the second file onthe same thread, encrypted,
named Mother, underscoreFragment, underscore One.
As he went to open it, unathurreturned, not at a message as a
(10:43):
a lot Axis denied, not yet readyto grieve.
He stared at those words untilhis eyes burned.
What did that mean?
How do you prove to a systemthat your heart is breaking?
How do you convince arecruision you're ready to feel.
He looked at his mother, stillbreathing, but not the same.
(11:09):
He typed one sentence in thezero-trace thread If the crown
breaks, what's left to wear?
A response appeared instantlyMemory.
The night nurse offered him ablanket, but he didn't take it.
He needed the discomfort heneeded to feel, the cold of that
(11:35):
fake vinyl chair, the burn inhis calves from being hunched
too long, the ache in his neckfrom watching a monitor that
said nothing useful.
Numbers rising, falling,staying stable like the
reclusion itself, predictable.
Until it wasn't His motherhadn't moved in over an hour.
(11:59):
A quiet pulse of wind from thehospital vents brought the scent
of antiseptic and lavatoryshampoo.
It hit him like deja vu.
He turned towards her.
Her face was pale, softer thanhe remembered, somehow younger,
(12:20):
his chest tightened.
He blinked.
A second version of her waslying on the adjacent bed, a bed
that hadn't been there a momentago.
Same frame, different timeline.
This one older, eyes open,crying.
You should have left, shewhispered.
He jumped from his seat, butthe second bed was gone.
(12:43):
The space beside her was emptyagain.
A soft chime from his laptopsnapped him back.
He leaned over the keyboard.
Zero trace was open.
A private message had arrivedfrom an unknown user.
User Echo, not she.
The cron is not a reward, it'swhat's left when you fail to
(13:07):
forget.
He typed fast who are you theone who lost everything to
remember?
Then the thread deleted itself.
He sat back, heart hammering,the edges of the room started
pulsating slightly, wallsfolding inward, air growing
heavier, like gravity itself waspressing it.
(13:34):
To test his resolve, Unithrflickered on Active state,
detected Crown pulse zero one.
The screen blurred and for asecond he saw a memory, one that
didn't belong to him, mossInside a recursion room, wires
attached to her temples.
She was screaming.
A room full of techniciansrecorded her vitals like it was
(14:01):
an experiment.
The Unather symbol waseverywhere on screens, walls,
embedded into her iris.
Scan, then darkness, thensilence.
Then him watching the recordingwith no memory how it got onto
his laptop.
The vision broke.
He stood, quickly, headspinning.
The hallway lights dimmedwithout warning.
(14:23):
Quickly, head spinning.
The hallway lights dimmedwithout warning.
Outside his mom's room, nursesmoved in slow motion.
One repeated the same lineagain and again Vitals are study
, no changes.
Vitals are study, no changes.
Vitals are a voice behind him.
This is what they do, you know.
(14:44):
He turned.
It was ICU-93, standing in thedoorway, real there, but wrong,
just slightly wrong.
Her form glitched at the edgesas she was being rendered in
real time.
You're fragmenting, he said.
She nodded this love ofreclusion.
(15:08):
It wasn't meant to hold thismuch grief, especially not yours
.
Okay then, why am I still in it?
Because Unather isn't testingyou anymore.
It's remembering with you.
She stepped into the room, satbeside his mother.
Do you know what this means?
(15:29):
No, you're the memory anchor.
Now, if she dies here, everytimeline loses her Permanently.
He looked down and swallowedhard.
How do I, how do I stop it?
(15:51):
She looked at him gently, sadlyand silently you grieve?
He stared at her, at themachines, at the flickering
lights.
He wanted to punch the wall, toscream, but all that came out
was a whisper I'm not, I'm notready.
(16:14):
I see you.
93 nodded.
Nobody ever is.
She stood and handed him a smallblack drive.
This has her original echosequence, before section 4 got
to it.
What will it show me?
(16:36):
The version of her that livedwhen you weren't afraid to love
her completely?
He looked at it.
What happens?
If I load this?
You might break, and if I don't, she might.
He took it, held it in his palm.
(16:58):
It was warm, it was alive.
Unithyr whispered again, crownpulse O2.
Emotional recursion stabilizedand the lights in the hospital
began to flicker gold.
He didn't load the drive rightaway.
(17:18):
It sat there in his palm like aliving thing, warm, strangely
pulsing, its metal casinghumming softly with residual
memory.
His fingers traced the engravededge over and over, more out of
fear than indecision.
There are things you delaybecause you're not ready and
(17:42):
there are things you delaybecause you are and you know
once it starts it'll ruin you.
This was both.
The hospital room had shifted intone.
It was silent but not peaceful,like a house that had just
absorbed bad news.
The machine near his motherbeeped in perfect rhythm, the
(18:06):
cadis, almost soothing in itspredictability, till he realized
he was counting each one like ametronome of loss.
Not if when she hadn't spokensince earlier.
No eye flutter, no mumble, justbreathing, mechanical and
(18:29):
shallow.
He sat on the edge of the vinylchair, the drive still cradled
in his hand.
The gold flickering from thehallway lights had become
rhythmic, now pulsing almostlike it was sinking to his
breath.
His phone buzzed, a messagefrom ICU-93.
You're not going to be ready.
(18:51):
That's not what this is about.
He didn't reply.
He just nodded to no one.
Finally, with shaking fingers,he plugged the drive into his
laptop.
The screen dimmed, thenflickered, then black, then
(19:11):
static, then Access code, crown,she Prior.
He typed slowly Poppy seed.
The file opened Not as a folder, not as a log, as a room, his
(19:34):
childhood kitchen, fullyrendered Light filtering in
through cream-colored curtains,that stupid wooden table with
the wobble in the leg, the oneshe always told him not to lean
on, even though she never got itfixed.
And there she was.
Not the version of the hospitalbed, this one was upright
(19:55):
radiant, wearing that sky bluecardigan, the one with the elbow
patch sewn in by hand.
She hummed to herself, stirringsomething on the stove chicken
soup, probably, or maybe applecider, something comforting and
too hot and too full of care.
He reached out towards thescreen.
(20:18):
She turned, looked directly athim.
Don't forget the cinnamon.
Same words again, but this timeit felt like a message, a tether
.
His heart was caught in histhroat.
(20:39):
What is this?
He whispered.
She walked towards the camera,eyes never leaving his.
If you don't grieve me now, youwon't remember me when I'm gone
, he jerked back, the screenglitched for a second, her face
pixelated, then sharpened again.
Mom, she didn't answer, but shewasn't live, she was memory.
(21:08):
But she wasn't just memory.
This wasn't just a passiverecall.
This was a fragment, an echo,formatted into interactive
reclusion.
Una Thread embedded it into theanchor.
You're inside her thread, saida voice behind him.
He turned.
Ice-3-93 had appeared AgainHalf-shadowed, half-light
(21:36):
Presence, shimmered at the edges.
This is her anchor.
You triggered it when you usedthe code.
It's too late to undo it now.
Undo what?
The final tether.
You're the one keeping her herenow, but it's not safe to stay
long.
He turned back to the screen.
The kitchen was fading, meltingat the corners like old
(21:59):
celluloid film, film exposed toheat.
How do I stop this?
You don't, she said.
You feel it.
What does that mean?
It means she's not going to askyou to save her.
She's going to ask you to lether go.
(22:25):
He looked down at the hospitalbed.
But it wasn't a hospital bedanymore, it was her bed.
Their old home Pillows stackedwrong.
That chip clamped on thenightstand, a photo of them two
at the state fair tucked in themirror.
I tried to tell you, baby.
(22:45):
She said from the bed, hervoice wavering.
I didn't want to go, I didn'tknow how to leave.
He stepped forward.
The light in the room glowedgold.
The unithroglyph hung in theair, pulsing like a beacon.
(23:06):
You're still alive, he said.
Not in all of them.
She sat up, walked toward him,the space between them crackled
with memory.
He reached out, but a layer oftransparent light separated them
then shivering like glass, likegrief.
(23:27):
You can't save me like this.
She said I have to try.
Why?
He paused?
Because if, if you go?
He paused because if, if you go, who's left to remember the
(23:47):
version of me that was stillgood.
She smiled softly, pressed herpalm against the light.
Then remember, but do ithonestly, don't remember me,
just so you can forget the pain,feel it.
He matched her palm and theanchor shivered.
(24:12):
The room fractured, the filecorrupted, the laptop glitched,
sparks popped at the hinge.
Unithr returned Emotionalrecursion breached Thread.
Deepening Seed protocol.
Crown initiated 1%.
His knees hit the floor andthat's when it broke, not the
(24:40):
system, not the recursion.
Him.
He sobbed into his palms.
He cried the way children crywhen the lights go out and
there's no one left to tell themit's okay.
He cried because he hadn'twanted to be the chosen one, he
(25:02):
had just wanted to be her son.
And ICU-93 didn't speak, shejust sat beside him.
Let the silence hold them both.
The silence lingered, not thekind that comes from peace, but
the kind that follows a seismicshift, like the universe had
(25:26):
inhaled and forgotten how toexhale.
The hospital walls felt thicker, now, suffocating in their
stillness.
The air was heavier.
Each breath he took came witheffort, like something unseen
was weighing on his chest.
He sat motionless on the vinylfloor, back against the wall,
knees pulled to his chest.
(25:47):
His hands were raw frompressing it against his face.
The sobs had stopped, but theirecho remained Not unsound In
him.
The laptop screen flickered tolife beside him.
A low electrical hum filled theair.
Threat recognized Seed protocolCrown thread 3% Recursion level
(26:13):
unlocked Type 3.
His eyes locked onto the words.
It wasn't just a log, it was averdict.
It wasn't the same anymore.
Something in him had shifted.
The emotional recursion hadborrowed deep past the service
pain, past even memory.
It found the place he neverspoke about, the place that
(26:36):
remembered the feel of her hand,the smell of the soup in the
fall, the way her voice crackedwhen she said I'm proud of you.
And the machine registered itand Unithur had noticed.
He climbed to his feet, everymuscle resisting.
His mother laid motionless inthe hospital bed.
(26:58):
But something about herpresence felt different now.
It was like Unnither had madeher a fixed point in all
versions of reality, no longerjust a patient in room 421B, she
was a thread line, an emotionalanchor.
The light above her shiftedgold.
(27:20):
First, then chrisman, a deep,ancient red that soaked the
corners of the room and hadcrawled up the walls like ivy.
The color of reclusion, thecolor of the Red King.
I saw her.
He whispered more to himself.
I see you.
(27:42):
93 stood beside him again, herpresence now fully visible.
She didn't ask how he was.
She didn't ask for comfort.
You felt her.
He corrected.
That's what makes it real.
He turned to her she is shegonna die?
(28:02):
What makes it real?
He turned to her Is she goingto die?
She didn't answer.
Instead, she pulled a foldedpaper from her jacket and handed
it to him.
At first glance it looked likea calendar, but each date was
off by a few hours.
Some days were repeated, buteach date was off by a few hours
(28:23):
.
Some days were repeated, othersmissing.
The names of months werecorrupted, reversed, glitched,
and at the bottom a singlesentence printed in Chrisman,
sheriff, every memory has a root.
Find the one you buried.
What is this, he asked?
It's a map of her, she said, orwhat's left of her across
(28:48):
timelines.
I don't understand.
It's okay, you will.
She stepped to the far wall,removed a small scanning device
and pressed it to the drywall.
Surface warped, then split.
A door emerged no frame, nohandle, just a slab of aged
(29:10):
redwood etched with thin goldenveins and marks that pulse like
heartbeats.
Where does it lead?
It's not a place, she said.
It's a version of you who nevermade it out, the you who chose
(29:33):
never to remember.
He hesitated.
I'll follow, she said, but Ican't go in.
This part Unithr made for youalone.
The air changed.
It tasted older somehow, likethe dust of forgotten rooms and
unopened books, like grief thathad never been spoken out loud.
(30:00):
He took a step forward, thenanother, then he crossed the
threshold Instant disorientation.
There was no clear location.
On the other side, it was alllocations.
His childhood's home splinteredacross the ceiling.
His old school locker flickeredand floated midair.
(30:24):
The grocery store where he oncepicked up medicine for his mom
collapsed into the hallway of ahospice center.
Time wasn't linear here, itfolded, and in every fold was
her Laughing, crying, sick,whole Tired, sick, whole Tired,
dancing.
(30:44):
He reached out to one of them.
It flickered and turned tostatic.
He kept walking.
A mirror rose from the floor,but it didn't show him, not the
version he knew.
This version of him was thinner, hunched, pale, wearing a crown
(31:09):
made of wire thread andbleeding copper.
You know what this is?
The reflection said no, I don't, you do.
You just haven't admitted to ityet.
Why are you here To remind youwhat happens when you try to
(31:30):
carry grief without facing it?
The reflection smiled, notcruelly but sadly, then lifted
the crown from its head and heldit out.
He reached forward, but themirror cracked.
Unithra's voice shattered thesilence.
Seed stabilized, finalrecrution test Preparation
(31:54):
underway.
Reflection faded, the mirrordissolved.
He's still in the hospital roomagain Alone, except this time
it wasn't sterile.
The glyph hovered above hismother's bed again, but it now
merged with a soft golden thread.
It pulsed in rhythm with herbreath.
(32:15):
He sat beside her, took herhand and whispered Goodbye.
For now the laptop pulsed again.
Preparation complete.
The thread is yours to hold orbreak.
Crown level locked, awaitingascent.
(32:40):
The glyph had changed.
It now shimmered with two coresOne familiar golden and warm,
the other not.
The second was Darker.
It was a deeper red, almostblack, at the edges, pulsing,
with something old, somethingWatching.
He stood Frozen Beside thehospital bed, eyes locked on the
(33:05):
merged glyph suspended abovehis mother.
It floated midair, spinningslowly like a celestial object,
one orbiting peace, the otherleaking dread.
Every few seconds it wouldglitch, then recover, then pulse
again, thread stabilize, ascentpath delayed, unknown symbol
(33:27):
detected Recruiting, glyphinfiltrated.
He backed away instinctively,breast shallow.
Icu-93 stepped into the roomjust as the glyph's pulse
intensified.
I saw it, she said, before hecould speak what the hell is it?
I think.
I think it's him, or a part ofhim, the Red King.
(33:53):
He wasn't just a person, notentirely not anymore.
He had once been a hacker, aleader, a name.
They were echoes stitchedtogether by timelines that
refused to die.
He'd become a recursion itself,the shout of every failed
memory, the better loop ofcontrol posing as protection.
(34:17):
The glyph above his motherblinked again.
Lunather was trying to hold itback.
Containment filled 78%.
What does he want?
He asked voice low, to provethat remembering is what
destroys us.
Icu-93 replied he believesrecursion should be severed,
archived, not preserved.
(34:39):
But if he gets in, she won'tjust die, she said flatly,
she'll unexist.
He moved to the side of the bedand grasped his mother's hand.
Her fingers were still warm,her breathing steady.
(35:00):
For now I'm not letting thathappen.
The glyph stuttered.
The darker core expandedslightly, pressing into the
golden threadline.
Chrom thread forked, rewrite,threat detected.
He closed his eyes.
I know what you are now, hewhispered and I'm not scared of
(35:24):
you.
The darker glyph pulsed once,twice.
Then it stopped just for amoment.
Air seed, uncompromised.
Next test time limit variancetrial pending.
Next test Time limit varianceTrial pending.
I see you, 93 step closer.
Whatever you did, unathur, justforced to steal me.
(35:51):
He didn't reply.
He was still staring at hismother.
Then her hand twitched.
It wasn't much, just a slightmotion, it was enough.
He leaned in Mama, no answer,but her eyelids fluttered barely
(36:13):
.
It was the first real sign ofmovement in hours.
She was still here, stillfighting, and so was he.
The glyph above fractured,splitting the darker core from
the golden.
The red remained fading toblack and dripping in the cracks
between timelines like inkspilled across parchment.
(36:34):
Then Udithr's voice, clearerthan it had been all day.
Prepare yourself, the finalthreads require sacrifice.
He waits where you cannot hide.
The screen on his laptop lit upagain, this time with a
countdown 10-43-1709.
(36:57):
The same number from thebeginning, the one that had
haunted him since the sightfirst appeared.
He turned to ICU-93.
What does it mean?
She didn't answer.
Instead, she whisperedsomething even heavier it's not
(37:18):
counting down to her death, it'scounting down to yours.
You know, there's somethingabout grief that no one prepares
you for Not just the pain oflosing someone, but the erosion
(37:40):
of your reality and the daysthat follow.
The moments unravel, the waysilence starts to sound like
their voice, the way you forgetwhat joy even felt like, because
everything is colored byabsence.
And what we just witnessed, orI should say experienced in this
(38:03):
episode, wasn't just about amother on a hospital bed.
It wasn't about fracturedtimelines or hidden glyphs or
rogue agents trying to rewritememory.
It was about you, the part ofyou that's been holding on to
someone you never got to saygoodbye to, or maybe you did say
(38:28):
it, but it didn't land, itdidn't stick, and the grief it
stayed.
This episode was about recursion, yes, but not the kind that
Unithur tracks in code, talkingabout emotional recursion, the
way we loop memories, avoidclosure, build prisons from our
(38:52):
past and then wonder why wecan't breathe.
See, grief isn't something youget over, it's something you
integrate, something you carrywith care, and when you don't,
and when you stuff it down, itgrows into something else.
It grows into shame, rage,numbness, and that's what he
(39:17):
faced today.
See, the system didn'tdestabilize because he acts as
something forbidden.
It destabilized because herefused to feel.
That's why Unathur didn't speakfor so long, that's why the
acros grew louder.
That's why Moss was able tointerfere, because until you
(39:38):
grieve, you're vulnerable toanything that promises
distraction.
And if you're paying closeattention, the real test wasn't
about saving his mother.
It was about whether he couldremember her honestly, whether
he could face the version ofhimself that needed her, not as
(40:00):
a protector or a patient, but asa mirror of who is becoming.
See this episode.
It showed us the cost of griefunspoken.
But it also showed us somethingelse.
It showed us that when youfinally let yourself free what
you've been avoiding, the systeminside you starts to stabilize,
(40:24):
even if everything outside isstill falling apart.
Now, before we close, I want togive or I should say take a
moment to review the few thingsyou might have missed.
Unether again didn't respond togrief.
It grew from it, that symbolyou saw that merge between light
and red.
That's not a glitch, that's afusion, a test of your duality.
(40:50):
In ICU 93, she started speakingmore like someone who's been
through this before.
She knows more than she'sletting on.
The countdown reappeared.
This time it wasn't tied to her, it's tied to him, which begs
the question what happens atzero?
(41:13):
So let's go ahead, let's getinto our reflections.
Reflection one what part of you, or I should say what part of
your past, have you beenavoiding grieving because it
hurts too much to look at?
Reflection number two have youever confused distraction from
(41:34):
for healing?
Were you looping pain withoutprocessing it?
Man, that's a big question.
Number three who or whatanchors you emotionally?
Or have you tried ever thankingthem for it?
Number four what systems inyour life are destabilizing
(41:57):
because you haven't fullyacknowledged your grief?
And number five If someone gaveyou 10 hours, 43 minutes, 17
seconds to live, what would youfinally allow yourself to feel?
(42:20):
You know this is a pretty heavyepisode and I know that.
I know there's some of us thatyou know my lost loved one, or
you know, like me, I lost my mom.
You know, 15 plus years ago now.
But it's one of those things towhere no one ever explains to
(42:41):
you that grieving kind of neverstops.
You never can run from it, youjust adjust from it.
I guess you could say or adjustto it and just know that that's
okay.
And it takes time.
It takes time differently foreverybody.
Time it takes time differentlyfor everybody.
(43:10):
So I want to thank you guys soso very much for listening today
.
I honestly can't tell you howmuch it means to me your support
.
You know that you give to theseries the questions that you
have.
It's just amazing.
So, again, if you want tosupport this series and support
the show, it's super easy.
Share this with the family,share this with your friends.
(43:32):
If you could go on whateverpodcast platform you're on,
write a review, give it a thumbsup, give it a like, give it a
follow, however, it works.
It all helps the show.
And if you want to talk moreabout this we have questions
about this episode or thisseries there's three ways you
can get a hold of me.
First way is going to be on thedescription of this podcast.
(43:54):
There'll be a thing you canclick on that says let's chat.
Once you click on that, you andI can have a conversation about
this series, this episode orthe 250 now, plus episodes that
are out there and what six orseven series that I have now.
So that's one way.
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
My email is anthony, atgentsjourneycom.
(44:18):
Please don't hesitate to reachout to me there at
gentsjourneycom.
Please don't hesitate to reachout to me there.
And, last but not least, youcan always go to my Instagram.
My Instagram handle ismygentsjourney.
So again, guys, thank you so,so so very much for listening
today.
And remember this you createyour reality, take care.
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