July 2, 2025 • 30 mins
A sequence of numbers appears after a vivid dream: 10.43.17.09. Not random digits, but a pattern that haunts every waking moment—scrawled on wrists, programmed into phone screens, whispering from hidden places in a home that suddenly feels both familiar and foreign.
This episode of Remembrance follows a son's desperate race to decode these mysterious numbers while caring for his mother in her final months. After accessing an experimental AI called Unather, he discovers something watching from the digital shadows—something that knows intimate details about his relationship with his mother, from childhood nicknames to unrecorded conversations that shouldn't exist in any database.
The impossible crimson-gold light of Unather's interface reveals frightening truths: surveillance footage of moments that haven't happened yet, messages from alternative versions of himself, and warnings about a countdown that might represent the time he has left with his mother. Most disturbing of all is the revelation that the house itself may have been listening and recording for years, storing memories in hidden drives and secret partitions.
As technology and reality blur, our protagonist confronts the most painful truth of all—that sometimes we get so caught in decoding the mysteries around us that we miss the simple, precious moments slipping away before our eyes. The episode challenges us with five powerful reflections: What echoes from your past need attention? Are you watching your life instead of living it? What conversations have you been avoiding? Would you notice if someone needed saving? What must you say before the countdown ends?
When memory starts speaking back through technology, the message isn't about code—it's about connection. What will you do with your remaining time? How will you respond when the mirror shows you versions of yourself you've tried to forget? Remember: you create your reality, but only if you're brave enough to face what's reflected back.
"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
three of Remembrance.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto the cold open.
This is a flash forward.
(00:22):
The color was impossible.
Not red, not gold, something inbetween, something ancient,
like a memory of blood,whispered through sunlight,
crisp and laced with a shimmerthat no spectrum could define.
He floated inside of it, notfalling, not rising, just
(00:46):
suspended Around him.
Fragments of cold, curled likeburning paper, each line of text
fading before it could finishitself, static buzz, not through
speakers, but within himself,like it lived there now and then
the voice, not from outside,inside Unithr.
(01:11):
She called you Poppy Seed.
His breath caught that name.
No one else has used it, noteven his father, only her, just
his mother, in the softestmoments when he was scared or or
sick or hiding under thekitchen table during a storm.
And then softer still, and youcalled her Firefly.
(01:34):
He felt the weight of it, theway his voice would stretch the
word when he was tired or whenshe kissed his forehead
goodnight.
He hadn't said it in years.
His eyes burned, then lightaround him twisted, pulling into
a sharp spiral.
Then a lens focusing.
(01:56):
Winother spoke again.
You have a way to save her, butit'll cost you everything If
you do nothing.
She leaves too soon.
His heart thudded.
What do I do, he whispered.
No reply, only flickeringsymbols.
(02:17):
A countdown 43.17.09.
Was it time?
Was it coordinates?
He reached for them, but theyevaporated before his fingers
could connect.
The voice returned She'll askyou about a woman with a scar.
(02:37):
Listen closely.
She sees through your shadow,but she's not ready yet.
Everything pulsed, light, sound, memory.
His body fractured into color.
The gold bled into red, the redinto black.
Remember Then silence, thefaint echo of his own voice,
(02:59):
distant, terrified, firefly.
He woke up gasping the sound ofhis own voice, firefly.
He woke up gasping the sound ofhis own voice.
Firefly Still rang in his ears,but now it was gone, faded like
dream smoke.
The room was dim, lit only bythe power Light Of his modem and
(03:23):
the soft flicker of hismonitor's sleep in standby mode.
But something was written, noton the screen, on paper, in his
handwriting.
He didn't remember doing it.
Just one line scrawled acrossthe notepad next to his mouse
10.43.17.09.
(03:46):
He stared at it.
The ink had bled slightly, likehe'd written it in a hurry, or
with trembling hands.
He traced the numbers with hisfinger 10.43.17.09.
Dot, 17, dot.
0, 9, dot.
It could be anything An IPaddress, coordinates, a
(04:09):
timestamp or something worse,something final.
What if it was a countdown?
What if that was the time hehad left?
He sat at his terminal andtyped the numbers into a fresh
text file, then into a timeconversion calculator nothing
meaningful.
Then a GPS coordinate systempointed to a stretch of rural
(04:33):
land in the middle of nowherefields, grain silos, no cameras,
no signal.
That alone made his skin crawl.
He checked his router logsclean.
He checked the sandboxenvironment clean.
Still the numbers were there,hanging in his chest like a
pressure he couldn't breathethrough.
(04:55):
Upstairs he heard his mothercoughing twice, then the groan
of her getting out of bed.
He moved without thinking, upthe stairs across the hall into
the kitchen.
She was standing there too thinin her robe, pouring hot water
over a peppermint tea bag, likeit was a ritual.
She turned and smiled you looklike hell.
(05:17):
He half laughed.
Dreams, the bad kind.
Dreams the bad kind, no, theremembering kind.
She nodded like she understood.
Play with me.
They sat at the table, cardsshuffled between them.
The morning sun hadn't crackedyet, the room was still blue.
(05:43):
With quiet.
She laid down a perfectsequence on her second hand.
You're cheating, he muttered.
I'm dying.
I get cheat codes, he winced.
She smiled, that same fireflysmile, small and tired and
somehow still infinite.
He looked at her too long.
She noticed, noticed.
(06:04):
You saw something, didn't you?
He said nothing.
She touched his hand.
You've always carried the Nlike a backpack, even when you
were a kid.
He looked down.
The back of the number iswritten in ink on his wrist.
I didn't even realize.
He copied them there too10.43.17.09.
(06:28):
She followed his gaze.
What's that, I don't know.
Then, maybe it's not for you toknow yet, she said sipping her
tea.
Maybe it's just for you toremember.
The numbers wouldn't leave himalone.
He carried them all day likesplinters in his head, replaying
(06:51):
them with every footstep, everyblink, every breath 10, 43, 17,
09.
He had scrawled them on asticky note beside his monitor,
but also in the corner of hisphone lock screen and inside the
cover of the journal he barelywrote in.
Even now, on the drive to hismother's appointment, they sat
(07:19):
heavy on the dash in his mind.
He didn't even realize he wasmuttering them until she glanced
sideways from the passengerseat you running diagnosis on
yourself?
She asked with a smirk.
He blinked and smiled faintly.
Just trying to solve a riddle.
You always were a riddle boy,wouldn't let anyone help you
(07:46):
unless they could keep up.
He turned on the highway ramp.
This one's different.
You always say that too.
When they got home, he barelyspoke.
His mother gave him space.
She always could tell somethingwas unraveling behind his eyes.
(08:07):
She went to her room with aquiet nod and left him in the
kitchen Staring at a bung ofreheated coffee.
He didn't remember pouring.
The numbers kept replaying10.43.17.09.
What if it wasn't time?
What if it was a key?
He rushed downstairs bootingthe system before his body even
(08:28):
had a chance to fully sit down.
His fingers moved automaticallyterminal windows, opening logs,
scrolling encrypted partitions,humming back to life.
He punched the numbers into asandbox crawler Nothing.
Then he tried breaking themapart Nothing.
Then he tried breaking themapart 10.43.17.09.
(08:49):
An IP.
It pointed to a defunct serverin Hungary, archived dead for
over a decade.
But he recognized the signatureembedded in the redirect path.
It matched the original Unatherseed file.
He froze the numbers weren'trandom, they were deliberate.
(09:15):
He switched windows scanningthrough his archive logs from
the last UNITHER access.
The metadata had been wipedclean, but in binary, there it
was 10-43-17-09.
Buried in the foot of a corruptframe, one that never even
played correctly, decrypted itsbyte trail and found a symbol
(09:39):
embedded in the noise A circleslashed diagonally like the
other.
No entry sign, only curved,etched, ornate.
The symbol from his dream, fromthe flash forward, the symbol
that hovered above the voicewhen one of her whispered about
(10:05):
saving her.
He stared at the monitor likeit was staring back.
The system chimed, new filecreated.
He didn't touch anything.
File name Recursion, underscoreone.
He opened it.
Inside nothing but text.
(10:26):
Time doesn't wait, but itleaves trails.
Then blow it.
1043-1709 equals fire-codedsequence backslash trail, one
backslash mother key.
His skin pricked.
(10:51):
He's re-scanning the string.
No malicious triggers, noembedded commands.
But that last line was new,hadn't been there five seconds
ago.
She was never the test you are.
The screen flickered, static,hummed in the walls.
Something overhead thudded Aceiling vent maybe, or a
footstep.
He stood up, slowly, listened.
(11:13):
Then he heard it again Faint,hollow, muffled, a sound he
hadn't heard in over a year,typing from behind the wall,
from inside the old air ductwhere he used to hide flash
drives as a kid.
He moved toward it, every stepslower, every breath jagged and
(11:39):
the voice returned, not aloudbut in his head, the hours
earlier than you think.
The clinic was thirty minutesaway, tucked beside an
industrial park that looked morelike a storage unit facility
than a medical office.
It drove in silence, a kindthat only exists between people
who shared lifetimes of eachother's company.
(12:01):
When she cleared her throat, itwasn't the cough this time,
just her voice cracking.
Little you ever think aboutwhat comes after this.
He hesitated.
You mean the appointment?
No, I mean after this.
He gripped the steering wheeltighter.
(12:24):
Yeah, you scared.
He glanced at her Terrified.
She looked out the window, metoo.
The world unfurled before themlike a ribbon.
The sky was wash-gray, clouds,low and sleepy.
(12:45):
I'm not afraid of where I go,she said, voice quieter now.
I'm afraid of what it does toyou when I go.
He didn't answer again.
The numbers echoed again10.43.17.09.
What if that was the time leftwith her?
(13:10):
What if he couldn't stop it?
What if this whole systemUnather, the countdown, the
corrupted files was just a wayto prepare him?
They pulled into the lot.
He helped her out.
She leaned on his arm justslightly.
Inside, the nurse greeted themA quiet nod, clinical warmth.
(13:31):
He sat in the waiting room,knees bouncing, trying to ignore
the sound of the old TV in thecorner replaying a local news
report, something about amissing federal data server.
Then, for a split second, thescreen glitched Charisma,
flicker, gold, shimmer, theimpossible shade.
He stood up, walked closer theTV, adjusted A flash of words
(13:56):
across the screen before itreset.
Remember the time thatremembers you.
No one else seemed to notice.
When his mom returned from theexam room, she saw the look on
his face.
What now?
He shook his head.
Nothing, but the numbers werelouder than ever.
(14:18):
He stared at that vent.
It was the same one he used topry open with his screwdriver
when he was 12, hiding gummybears and flash drives like they
were state secrets.
His dad had installed it whenthey redid the HVAC system.
The corner grill was just looseenough to wiggle free.
But now Now it was humming, notmechanically, digitally, there
(14:54):
was no sound, but there wasfrequency, a kind of pressure
behind the silence.
He crouched down, removed thecover and reached inside.
Dust coated his hand.
He felt around fingertipsraising plastic, a soft bag and
then metal, a drive, small,black, worn, the same model he
used before Solid States tookover.
It didn't have a label.
He plugged it in upstairs usingan old adapter, an isolated
(15:18):
offline tower.
The system recognized itinstantly.
Device name mirror underscorezero, zero x one.
Inside were three folders audiologs, archives.
He opened audio, only one file,dining room, underscore One dot
(15:41):
wave.
He hit play, first static, thendishes, silverware.
Clinking, the scrape of a chair, then her voice, his mother
Laughing Telling a story.
When he was five and tried tomicrowave a CD to burn music
faster.
He stood frozen.
(16:02):
That memory wasn't recorded, Notever.
It happened.
But there wasn't a cameraaround, it wasn't from a phone,
it was from the room, the angles, the spacing, the renaissance,
like the house itself hadrecorded it, like Unathur had
(16:25):
been listening the entire time.
He stopped the playback.
His heart was thundering.
Now, how many moments had itseen, how many thoughts had it
heard?
He moved to logs text filesunnamed, each just long strings
of fragments.
He doesn't see the pattern yet.
Weather integrity at 87% andslipping Upload.
(16:47):
Delayed User unaware.
Begin trial run.
Before detachment he swallowedhard Trial Detachment.
(17:07):
His hands hovered over the thirdfolder, archives.
He clicked Inside a single fileUnather-red-doorimg.
He didn't open it, not yet, notuntil he understood more.
Instead he unplugged the drive,turned off the tower and backed
away.
Unithr wasn't a tool, it wasn'teven a system, it was a witness
(17:31):
.
And now it was speaking ofmoments only.
He remembered Only moments hismother would have known, moments
that shouldn't be anywhere butwere Because something old had
been watching long before hearrived.
He didn't sleep, not because hedidn't want to, but because he
(17:55):
couldn't.
Every time he shut his eyes heheard the faint horrible of his
mother's laugh from that audiofile stretching and folding into
whispers that wasn't hers.
By 4 am he was back in thebasement, lights off, monitor
glowing.
The folder was still there,archives Backslash
(18:16):
Unithr-reddoorimg.
He didn't open it, not yet.
Instead he opened Zero Trace.
The community felt distant, nowforeign.
He hadn't posted anything sincethe first night he accessed the
link.
No one had checked in, not hisusual allies who were silent,
(18:40):
except one.
A new user had posted in a deepprivate thread, a thread he
created five years ago, nevershared.
The user's name was proxy,underscore zero thirteen.
The message was one line, shetold me, to remind you,
(19:01):
fireflies don't glow alone.
His chest tightened.
That wasn't public knowledge.
No one but his mother knew.
He used to say that as a kidwhen catching fireflies in the
backyard.
It was a joke, a sentence shewould say when he wanted to stay
out longer.
When he asked why theydisappeared so quickly, it was
impossible, he responded who isthis?
(19:23):
No reply.
He backtraced the post,encrypted it in a way he didn't
recognize Nothing, bounced offstandard servers.
The signature looked evolvedLike something rewritten through
recursion, just like Unather.
He leaned back, stared at thescreen.
(19:44):
Something was happening.
Something layered the file name, the logs, the voices, the
countdown and now Zero Trace.
The one place he thought washis was being rewritten beneath
him.
He clicked through the adminlogs.
A new subdirectory had beenadded to the backend, one he
(20:06):
never made.
It was simply labeled trialunderscore one.
Inside it was blank Until itpopulated right before his eyes
A video file.
He hit play.
It was surveillance footagefrom the hallway outside the
basement, timestamped threehours ago.
In it he watched his own dooropen, but he never opened it.
(20:31):
And from the shadows a figurewalked past the camera, wearing
his hoodie, his gait, hismovements.
But when the figure turned toface the lens, the image
distorted.
But it was his face, but wrong,more tired, paler, like it had
been through something, like ithad seen what he hadn't seen yet
(20:56):
.
He reached out and paused thevideo rebound frame by frame,
and in the final flicker beforethe clip ended, the screen
glitched, crispened in gold, aflash detect appeared in the
corner.
Trial one has begun.
And then you are not alone inthe mirror.
(21:20):
By morning the air feltdifferent.
He sat on the porch with hisvape and a thermos of coffee,
gone lukewarm, watching the skyshift from indigo to bruise-gray
colored.
His body was still, but hismind was grinding through
equations, logs, signal pathways, searching for something it
(21:41):
wasn't ready to find.
The countdown stayed etchedinto his thoughts 10.43.17.09.
It wasn't just time anymore, itwas pressure, like a lock with
a timer set inside his chest.
The house creaked behind himand a soft shuffle of slippers.
(22:03):
His mother stood at the doorway,wrapped in her robe, arms
crossed against the chill.
You didn't sleep again.
She nodded.
He looked down and nodded.
She came and sat beside himstaring at the same sky.
I used to think the hardestpart would be the pain.
She said.
(22:23):
But it's the waiting andknowing it's coming, he didn't
speak.
He glanced at him.
You think I don't see what'shappening to you.
He looked over eyes heavy.
I'm just.
I'm just trying to keep yousafe and I'm trying to keep you
(22:51):
human.
She touched his hand.
Whatever's pulling at you,whatever this countdown is, you
don't have to face it alone.
He flinched, the words echoedyou are not alone in the mirror.
He stood up abruptly and wentinside, back down to the
basement, back to the hum of thetower and the residue of one
(23:13):
ether still in the air.
The folder changed againrecursion underscore one was now
labeled the mother key.
He clicked it open.
This time it wasn't a file, itwas a prompt.
Speak the name.
She called you.
He froze.
His fingers hovered.
Then with trembling hands, hetyped poppy seed.
(23:37):
The screen blinked, accepted.
A new interface bloomed acrossthe screen More vivid, more
alien, more Alive.
Circles within circles, liftsfolding into fractal spirals.
Everything glowed.
That was impossible.
Crimson gold.
Another line appeared Trial 1the price of preservation.
Then your timeline is unstable.
And beneath it Another lineappeared Trial 1.
(23:58):
The price of preservation.
Then your timeline is unstable.
And beneath it A real-timevideo feed of his mother in the
kitchen Making tea Live.
She cannot see us.
His chest hollowed Another line.
But you must witness theconsequence of inaction.
The footage distorted Herfigure freezing mid-pour the
(24:23):
teacup shattering, her bodyfolding inward like it had been
struck.
The screen went black.
He screamed, yanked the powercord from the tower.
The room plunged into silence.
Footsteps upstairs.
He bolted up the stairs, heartslamming, breasts shallow.
His mother was fine, pouringtea, humming softly.
(24:44):
She turned and smiled Are youokay?
He collapsed in her chair.
She set a cup of tea in frontof him and touched his shoulder.
Whatever it is, she said softlyyou're not too late.
(25:05):
But in his mind the wordsrepeated like a curse the hours
earlier.
Then you think there's somethingstrange about hearing your own
name spoken.
In a way, no one else shouldknow something in the intimate,
you know something I guess youcan say almost intrusive.
(25:28):
You know this episode.
You watched him chase a codethat felt like a countdown, but
also a trap.
It echoeded through every room,every screen, every part of his
past and it kept whispering onething you are not alone in the
(25:48):
mirror.
Let's talk about that, becausehere's the truth.
You know, we all have versionsof ourselves.
That's living slightly out ofsync.
You know the what-if version,the if-only version, the version
that never said the thing weneeded to say, right, the one
(26:08):
that watched things happen andstayed silent.
And if you're not careful, thatversion starts to live louder
than you do.
You saw it happening here.
The voice of Unathur isn't justa ghost, it's a mirror.
It's showing him what he hasn'tconfronted, what he's tried to
bury and what could be taken ifhe doesn't act.
(26:35):
So let me ask you somethingRight now.
Be honest, what are youavoiding?
That feels just a little toofamiliar?
What part of you have youstopped listening to because it
sounded too much like the truth?
See, this episode wasn't abouthacking, it wasn't about
surveillance.
It was about memory and whathappens when it starts speaking
(26:59):
back.
Because when the thing youthought was dead starts
whispering again, you betterstart paying attention.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto our reflections.
Reflection one what part ofyour past still echoes in the
quiet moments?
Think about a phrase, a placeor a person that keeps showing
(27:21):
up.
What is it trying to remind you?
That's a big one, I know.
Number two reflection two haveyou ever felt like you were
watching your life instead ofliving it?
That feeling of detachmentmight be your signal to
re-engage before you lose timethat you can't get back.
(27:46):
Number three what have you beendelaying because it feels too
big to start?
Write it down, say it out loud,because silence won't stop the
clock, it'll just make it louder.
Number four if your loved oneneeded saving, would you even
(28:06):
notice the signs or are you tooburied in your own code?
Sometimes caring means steppingout of your system.
I'm just going to tell you thispersonally, like that question
right there, from, likeyesterday, like with my mom,
when I look back on this, thatwas a huge question for me
(28:26):
because all the signs were there.
They always are when you lookback.
And number five what's onething you need to tell someone
before it's too late?
Don't wait for a countdown.
Make that moment now, or thesilence will do it for you.
(28:47):
I know we're dealing with a lotof serious topics here, right,
we're dealing with hacking.
We're dealing with his mom.
You know not getting better,right, but this is real life
stuff.
Like this is real life things,and I know these are hard to
hear, but it'll get better, itwill.
This series is the realest oneI've written so far but, like I
(29:14):
said, it was in my heart towrite this, so I hope you guys
are enjoying it.
But anyways, if you guys areenjoying it, I would appreciate.
Well, first off I want to say Ireally do appreciate all the
support I've been getting withthis.
It has been unbelievable.
Um, I actually got a message.
Uh, yes, actually it was thismorning.
I I'm sorry.
Someone told me like I feellike you're writing my life
(29:37):
right now.
So I'm not, but I mean if,maybe, I'm not sure.
So I just want to thankeveryone for your support and
your comments.
They've just been amazing.
So thank you so much.
Now, if you want to engage withme, there's three ways you can
do it.
First way is going to bethrough the let's chat function
here on this podcast.
(29:57):
It'll be in the description.
You click on that and you and Ican have a conversation about
this series, this episode, theeight other series that are out
there and the 250 now episodesthat I've released.
So there's a lot.
There's a big library.
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
My email is anthony atgentsjourneycom.
(30:18):
And then, last but not least,you can always go to my
instagram.
My instagram is my gentsjourney.
You can find me there too.
So again, guys, thank you so,so, so, very much for listening
today.
And remember this you createyour reality.
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are in episode
three of Remembrance.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto the cold open.
This is a flash forward.
(00:22):
The color was impossible.
Not red, not gold, something inbetween, something ancient,
like a memory of blood,whispered through sunlight,
crisp and laced with a shimmerthat no spectrum could define.
He floated inside of it, notfalling, not rising, just
(00:46):
suspended Around him.
Fragments of cold, curled likeburning paper, each line of text
fading before it could finishitself, static buzz, not through
speakers, but within himself,like it lived there now and then
the voice, not from outside,inside Unithr.
(01:11):
She called you Poppy Seed.
His breath caught that name.
No one else has used it, noteven his father, only her, just
his mother, in the softestmoments when he was scared or or
sick or hiding under thekitchen table during a storm.
And then softer still, and youcalled her Firefly.
(01:34):
He felt the weight of it, theway his voice would stretch the
word when he was tired or whenshe kissed his forehead
goodnight.
He hadn't said it in years.
His eyes burned, then lightaround him twisted, pulling into
a sharp spiral.
Then a lens focusing.
(01:56):
Winother spoke again.
You have a way to save her, butit'll cost you everything If
you do nothing.
She leaves too soon.
His heart thudded.
What do I do, he whispered.
No reply, only flickeringsymbols.
(02:17):
A countdown 43.17.09.
Was it time?
Was it coordinates?
He reached for them, but theyevaporated before his fingers
could connect.
The voice returned She'll askyou about a woman with a scar.
(02:37):
Listen closely.
She sees through your shadow,but she's not ready yet.
Everything pulsed, light, sound, memory.
His body fractured into color.
The gold bled into red, the redinto black.
Remember Then silence, thefaint echo of his own voice,
(02:59):
distant, terrified, firefly.
He woke up gasping the sound ofhis own voice, firefly.
He woke up gasping the sound ofhis own voice.
Firefly Still rang in his ears,but now it was gone, faded like
dream smoke.
The room was dim, lit only bythe power Light Of his modem and
(03:23):
the soft flicker of hismonitor's sleep in standby mode.
But something was written, noton the screen, on paper, in his
handwriting.
He didn't remember doing it.
Just one line scrawled acrossthe notepad next to his mouse
10.43.17.09.
(03:46):
He stared at it.
The ink had bled slightly, likehe'd written it in a hurry, or
with trembling hands.
He traced the numbers with hisfinger 10.43.17.09.
Dot, 17, dot.
0, 9, dot.
It could be anything An IPaddress, coordinates, a
(04:09):
timestamp or something worse,something final.
What if it was a countdown?
What if that was the time hehad left?
He sat at his terminal andtyped the numbers into a fresh
text file, then into a timeconversion calculator nothing
meaningful.
Then a GPS coordinate systempointed to a stretch of rural
(04:33):
land in the middle of nowherefields, grain silos, no cameras,
no signal.
That alone made his skin crawl.
He checked his router logsclean.
He checked the sandboxenvironment clean.
Still the numbers were there,hanging in his chest like a
pressure he couldn't breathethrough.
(04:55):
Upstairs he heard his mothercoughing twice, then the groan
of her getting out of bed.
He moved without thinking, upthe stairs across the hall into
the kitchen.
She was standing there too thinin her robe, pouring hot water
over a peppermint tea bag, likeit was a ritual.
She turned and smiled you looklike hell.
(05:17):
He half laughed.
Dreams, the bad kind.
Dreams the bad kind, no, theremembering kind.
She nodded like she understood.
Play with me.
They sat at the table, cardsshuffled between them.
The morning sun hadn't crackedyet, the room was still blue.
(05:43):
With quiet.
She laid down a perfectsequence on her second hand.
You're cheating, he muttered.
I'm dying.
I get cheat codes, he winced.
She smiled, that same fireflysmile, small and tired and
somehow still infinite.
He looked at her too long.
She noticed, noticed.
(06:04):
You saw something, didn't you?
He said nothing.
She touched his hand.
You've always carried the Nlike a backpack, even when you
were a kid.
He looked down.
The back of the number iswritten in ink on his wrist.
I didn't even realize.
He copied them there too10.43.17.09.
(06:28):
She followed his gaze.
What's that, I don't know.
Then, maybe it's not for you toknow yet, she said sipping her
tea.
Maybe it's just for you toremember.
The numbers wouldn't leave himalone.
He carried them all day likesplinters in his head, replaying
(06:51):
them with every footstep, everyblink, every breath 10, 43, 17,
09.
He had scrawled them on asticky note beside his monitor,
but also in the corner of hisphone lock screen and inside the
cover of the journal he barelywrote in.
Even now, on the drive to hismother's appointment, they sat
(07:19):
heavy on the dash in his mind.
He didn't even realize he wasmuttering them until she glanced
sideways from the passengerseat you running diagnosis on
yourself?
She asked with a smirk.
He blinked and smiled faintly.
Just trying to solve a riddle.
You always were a riddle boy,wouldn't let anyone help you
(07:46):
unless they could keep up.
He turned on the highway ramp.
This one's different.
You always say that too.
When they got home, he barelyspoke.
His mother gave him space.
She always could tell somethingwas unraveling behind his eyes.
(08:07):
She went to her room with aquiet nod and left him in the
kitchen Staring at a bung ofreheated coffee.
He didn't remember pouring.
The numbers kept replaying10.43.17.09.
What if it wasn't time?
What if it was a key?
He rushed downstairs bootingthe system before his body even
(08:28):
had a chance to fully sit down.
His fingers moved automaticallyterminal windows, opening logs,
scrolling encrypted partitions,humming back to life.
He punched the numbers into asandbox crawler Nothing.
Then he tried breaking themapart Nothing.
Then he tried breaking themapart 10.43.17.09.
(08:49):
An IP.
It pointed to a defunct serverin Hungary, archived dead for
over a decade.
But he recognized the signatureembedded in the redirect path.
It matched the original Unatherseed file.
He froze the numbers weren'trandom, they were deliberate.
(09:15):
He switched windows scanningthrough his archive logs from
the last UNITHER access.
The metadata had been wipedclean, but in binary, there it
was 10-43-17-09.
Buried in the foot of a corruptframe, one that never even
played correctly, decrypted itsbyte trail and found a symbol
(09:39):
embedded in the noise A circleslashed diagonally like the
other.
No entry sign, only curved,etched, ornate.
The symbol from his dream, fromthe flash forward, the symbol
that hovered above the voicewhen one of her whispered about
(10:05):
saving her.
He stared at the monitor likeit was staring back.
The system chimed, new filecreated.
He didn't touch anything.
File name Recursion, underscoreone.
He opened it.
Inside nothing but text.
(10:26):
Time doesn't wait, but itleaves trails.
Then blow it.
1043-1709 equals fire-codedsequence backslash trail, one
backslash mother key.
His skin pricked.
(10:51):
He's re-scanning the string.
No malicious triggers, noembedded commands.
But that last line was new,hadn't been there five seconds
ago.
She was never the test you are.
The screen flickered, static,hummed in the walls.
Something overhead thudded Aceiling vent maybe, or a
footstep.
He stood up, slowly, listened.
(11:13):
Then he heard it again Faint,hollow, muffled, a sound he
hadn't heard in over a year,typing from behind the wall,
from inside the old air ductwhere he used to hide flash
drives as a kid.
He moved toward it, every stepslower, every breath jagged and
(11:39):
the voice returned, not aloudbut in his head, the hours
earlier than you think.
The clinic was thirty minutesaway, tucked beside an
industrial park that looked morelike a storage unit facility
than a medical office.
It drove in silence, a kindthat only exists between people
who shared lifetimes of eachother's company.
(12:01):
When she cleared her throat, itwasn't the cough this time,
just her voice cracking.
Little you ever think aboutwhat comes after this.
He hesitated.
You mean the appointment?
No, I mean after this.
He gripped the steering wheeltighter.
(12:24):
Yeah, you scared.
He glanced at her Terrified.
She looked out the window, metoo.
The world unfurled before themlike a ribbon.
The sky was wash-gray, clouds,low and sleepy.
(12:45):
I'm not afraid of where I go,she said, voice quieter now.
I'm afraid of what it does toyou when I go.
He didn't answer again.
The numbers echoed again10.43.17.09.
What if that was the time leftwith her?
(13:10):
What if he couldn't stop it?
What if this whole systemUnather, the countdown, the
corrupted files was just a wayto prepare him?
They pulled into the lot.
He helped her out.
She leaned on his arm justslightly.
Inside, the nurse greeted themA quiet nod, clinical warmth.
(13:31):
He sat in the waiting room,knees bouncing, trying to ignore
the sound of the old TV in thecorner replaying a local news
report, something about amissing federal data server.
Then, for a split second, thescreen glitched Charisma,
flicker, gold, shimmer, theimpossible shade.
He stood up, walked closer theTV, adjusted A flash of words
(13:56):
across the screen before itreset.
Remember the time thatremembers you.
No one else seemed to notice.
When his mom returned from theexam room, she saw the look on
his face.
What now?
He shook his head.
Nothing, but the numbers werelouder than ever.
(14:18):
He stared at that vent.
It was the same one he used topry open with his screwdriver
when he was 12, hiding gummybears and flash drives like they
were state secrets.
His dad had installed it whenthey redid the HVAC system.
The corner grill was just looseenough to wiggle free.
But now Now it was humming, notmechanically, digitally, there
(14:54):
was no sound, but there wasfrequency, a kind of pressure
behind the silence.
He crouched down, removed thecover and reached inside.
Dust coated his hand.
He felt around fingertipsraising plastic, a soft bag and
then metal, a drive, small,black, worn, the same model he
used before Solid States tookover.
It didn't have a label.
He plugged it in upstairs usingan old adapter, an isolated
(15:18):
offline tower.
The system recognized itinstantly.
Device name mirror underscorezero, zero x one.
Inside were three folders audiologs, archives.
He opened audio, only one file,dining room, underscore One dot
(15:41):
wave.
He hit play, first static, thendishes, silverware.
Clinking, the scrape of a chair, then her voice, his mother
Laughing Telling a story.
When he was five and tried tomicrowave a CD to burn music
faster.
He stood frozen.
(16:02):
That memory wasn't recorded, Notever.
It happened.
But there wasn't a cameraaround, it wasn't from a phone,
it was from the room, the angles, the spacing, the renaissance,
like the house itself hadrecorded it, like Unathur had
(16:25):
been listening the entire time.
He stopped the playback.
His heart was thundering.
Now, how many moments had itseen, how many thoughts had it
heard?
He moved to logs text filesunnamed, each just long strings
of fragments.
He doesn't see the pattern yet.
Weather integrity at 87% andslipping Upload.
(16:47):
Delayed User unaware.
Begin trial run.
Before detachment he swallowedhard Trial Detachment.
(17:07):
His hands hovered over the thirdfolder, archives.
He clicked Inside a single fileUnather-red-doorimg.
He didn't open it, not yet, notuntil he understood more.
Instead he unplugged the drive,turned off the tower and backed
away.
Unithr wasn't a tool, it wasn'teven a system, it was a witness
(17:31):
.
And now it was speaking ofmoments only.
He remembered Only moments hismother would have known, moments
that shouldn't be anywhere butwere Because something old had
been watching long before hearrived.
He didn't sleep, not because hedidn't want to, but because he
(17:55):
couldn't.
Every time he shut his eyes heheard the faint horrible of his
mother's laugh from that audiofile stretching and folding into
whispers that wasn't hers.
By 4 am he was back in thebasement, lights off, monitor
glowing.
The folder was still there,archives Backslash
(18:16):
Unithr-reddoorimg.
He didn't open it, not yet.
Instead he opened Zero Trace.
The community felt distant, nowforeign.
He hadn't posted anything sincethe first night he accessed the
link.
No one had checked in, not hisusual allies who were silent,
(18:40):
except one.
A new user had posted in a deepprivate thread, a thread he
created five years ago, nevershared.
The user's name was proxy,underscore zero thirteen.
The message was one line, shetold me, to remind you,
(19:01):
fireflies don't glow alone.
His chest tightened.
That wasn't public knowledge.
No one but his mother knew.
He used to say that as a kidwhen catching fireflies in the
backyard.
It was a joke, a sentence shewould say when he wanted to stay
out longer.
When he asked why theydisappeared so quickly, it was
impossible, he responded who isthis?
(19:23):
No reply.
He backtraced the post,encrypted it in a way he didn't
recognize Nothing, bounced offstandard servers.
The signature looked evolvedLike something rewritten through
recursion, just like Unather.
He leaned back, stared at thescreen.
(19:44):
Something was happening.
Something layered the file name, the logs, the voices, the
countdown and now Zero Trace.
The one place he thought washis was being rewritten beneath
him.
He clicked through the adminlogs.
A new subdirectory had beenadded to the backend, one he
(20:06):
never made.
It was simply labeled trialunderscore one.
Inside it was blank Until itpopulated right before his eyes
A video file.
He hit play.
It was surveillance footagefrom the hallway outside the
basement, timestamped threehours ago.
In it he watched his own dooropen, but he never opened it.
(20:31):
And from the shadows a figurewalked past the camera, wearing
his hoodie, his gait, hismovements.
But when the figure turned toface the lens, the image
distorted.
But it was his face, but wrong,more tired, paler, like it had
been through something, like ithad seen what he hadn't seen yet
(20:56):
.
He reached out and paused thevideo rebound frame by frame,
and in the final flicker beforethe clip ended, the screen
glitched, crispened in gold, aflash detect appeared in the
corner.
Trial one has begun.
And then you are not alone inthe mirror.
(21:20):
By morning the air feltdifferent.
He sat on the porch with hisvape and a thermos of coffee,
gone lukewarm, watching the skyshift from indigo to bruise-gray
colored.
His body was still, but hismind was grinding through
equations, logs, signal pathways, searching for something it
(21:41):
wasn't ready to find.
The countdown stayed etchedinto his thoughts 10.43.17.09.
It wasn't just time anymore, itwas pressure, like a lock with
a timer set inside his chest.
The house creaked behind himand a soft shuffle of slippers.
(22:03):
His mother stood at the doorway,wrapped in her robe, arms
crossed against the chill.
You didn't sleep again.
She nodded.
He looked down and nodded.
She came and sat beside himstaring at the same sky.
I used to think the hardestpart would be the pain.
She said.
(22:23):
But it's the waiting andknowing it's coming, he didn't
speak.
He glanced at him.
You think I don't see what'shappening to you.
He looked over eyes heavy.
I'm just.
I'm just trying to keep yousafe and I'm trying to keep you
(22:51):
human.
She touched his hand.
Whatever's pulling at you,whatever this countdown is, you
don't have to face it alone.
He flinched, the words echoedyou are not alone in the mirror.
He stood up abruptly and wentinside, back down to the
basement, back to the hum of thetower and the residue of one
(23:13):
ether still in the air.
The folder changed againrecursion underscore one was now
labeled the mother key.
He clicked it open.
This time it wasn't a file, itwas a prompt.
Speak the name.
She called you.
He froze.
His fingers hovered.
Then with trembling hands, hetyped poppy seed.
(23:37):
The screen blinked, accepted.
A new interface bloomed acrossthe screen More vivid, more
alien, more Alive.
Circles within circles, liftsfolding into fractal spirals.
Everything glowed.
That was impossible.
Crimson gold.
Another line appeared Trial 1the price of preservation.
Then your timeline is unstable.
And beneath it Another lineappeared Trial 1.
(23:58):
The price of preservation.
Then your timeline is unstable.
And beneath it A real-timevideo feed of his mother in the
kitchen Making tea Live.
She cannot see us.
His chest hollowed Another line.
But you must witness theconsequence of inaction.
The footage distorted Herfigure freezing mid-pour the
(24:23):
teacup shattering, her bodyfolding inward like it had been
struck.
The screen went black.
He screamed, yanked the powercord from the tower.
The room plunged into silence.
Footsteps upstairs.
He bolted up the stairs, heartslamming, breasts shallow.
His mother was fine, pouringtea, humming softly.
(24:44):
She turned and smiled Are youokay?
He collapsed in her chair.
She set a cup of tea in frontof him and touched his shoulder.
Whatever it is, she said softlyyou're not too late.
(25:05):
But in his mind the wordsrepeated like a curse the hours
earlier.
Then you think there's somethingstrange about hearing your own
name spoken.
In a way, no one else shouldknow something in the intimate,
you know something I guess youcan say almost intrusive.
(25:28):
You know this episode.
You watched him chase a codethat felt like a countdown, but
also a trap.
It echoeded through every room,every screen, every part of his
past and it kept whispering onething you are not alone in the
(25:48):
mirror.
Let's talk about that, becausehere's the truth.
You know, we all have versionsof ourselves.
That's living slightly out ofsync.
You know the what-if version,the if-only version, the version
that never said the thing weneeded to say, right, the one
(26:08):
that watched things happen andstayed silent.
And if you're not careful, thatversion starts to live louder
than you do.
You saw it happening here.
The voice of Unathur isn't justa ghost, it's a mirror.
It's showing him what he hasn'tconfronted, what he's tried to
bury and what could be taken ifhe doesn't act.
(26:35):
So let me ask you somethingRight now.
Be honest, what are youavoiding?
That feels just a little toofamiliar?
What part of you have youstopped listening to because it
sounded too much like the truth?
See, this episode wasn't abouthacking, it wasn't about
surveillance.
It was about memory and whathappens when it starts speaking
(26:59):
back.
Because when the thing youthought was dead starts
whispering again, you betterstart paying attention.
So let's go ahead and let's getinto our reflections.
Reflection one what part ofyour past still echoes in the
quiet moments?
Think about a phrase, a placeor a person that keeps showing
(27:21):
up.
What is it trying to remind you?
That's a big one, I know.
Number two reflection two haveyou ever felt like you were
watching your life instead ofliving it?
That feeling of detachmentmight be your signal to
re-engage before you lose timethat you can't get back.
(27:46):
Number three what have you beendelaying because it feels too
big to start?
Write it down, say it out loud,because silence won't stop the
clock, it'll just make it louder.
Number four if your loved oneneeded saving, would you even
(28:06):
notice the signs or are you tooburied in your own code?
Sometimes caring means steppingout of your system.
I'm just going to tell you thispersonally, like that question
right there, from, likeyesterday, like with my mom,
when I look back on this, thatwas a huge question for me
(28:26):
because all the signs were there.
They always are when you lookback.
And number five what's onething you need to tell someone
before it's too late?
Don't wait for a countdown.
Make that moment now, or thesilence will do it for you.
(28:47):
I know we're dealing with a lotof serious topics here, right,
we're dealing with hacking.
We're dealing with his mom.
You know not getting better,right, but this is real life
stuff.
Like this is real life things,and I know these are hard to
hear, but it'll get better, itwill.
This series is the realest oneI've written so far but, like I
(29:14):
said, it was in my heart towrite this, so I hope you guys
are enjoying it.
But anyways, if you guys areenjoying it, I would appreciate.
Well, first off I want to say Ireally do appreciate all the
support I've been getting withthis.
It has been unbelievable.
Um, I actually got a message.
Uh, yes, actually it was thismorning.
I I'm sorry.
Someone told me like I feellike you're writing my life
(29:37):
right now.
So I'm not, but I mean if,maybe, I'm not sure.
So I just want to thankeveryone for your support and
your comments.
They've just been amazing.
So thank you so much.
Now, if you want to engage withme, there's three ways you can
do it.
First way is going to bethrough the let's chat function
here on this podcast.
(29:57):
It'll be in the description.
You click on that and you and Ican have a conversation about
this series, this episode, theeight other series that are out
there and the 250 now episodesthat I've released.
So there's a lot.
There's a big library.
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
My email is anthony atgentsjourneycom.
(30:18):
And then, last but not least,you can always go to my
instagram.
My instagram is my gentsjourney.
You can find me there too.
So again, guys, thank you so,so, so, very much for listening
today.
And remember this you createyour reality.
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