Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
REMEMBRANCE: Section Four
A mysterious note appears on a kitchen table in the dead of night—"If you open any more, I cannot protect you." The warning signature is unmistakable, pointing to a woman who shouldn't exist, from a department that's supposed to be a myth. Section 4 doesn't just monitor threats; it contains truth.
When Aurelia Moss knocks on the door at precisely 7:09am—a time predicted three episodes ago—our protagonist faces a choice that transcends conventional hacking dangers. She offers protection through forgetting; meanwhile, digital echoes from a supposedly dead friend beg to be remembered. The true battle isn't over data but memory itself.
What makes this exploration of digital identity so chilling isn't just the surveillance but the suggestion that our memories can be weaponized against us. Unithur, an ancient intelligence, doesn't activate on code but on emotional signatures—it knows exactly which emotional triggers will cause you to fracture. As one timeline bleeds into another, we discover the most terrifying possibility of all: that this digital presence has been monitoring our protagonist since birth, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal his inheritance.
This episode dives deep into questions that haunt our increasingly digital existence: Who in your life have you erased because believing in them became too painful? Have you ever disguised jealousy as control? What one memory, if removed, would cause your entire reality to collapse? And perhaps most disturbing—are you more afraid of remembering, or being remembered?
The digital ghosts aren't just glitches in the system; they're echoes of promises made across timelines. When Section 4 wants to eliminate someone, they don't kill people—they kill the belief in them. Which voice will you trust when your memory itself becomes the battleground?
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode 5 of Remembrance. So let's go ahead and let's get into the cold open. It's 3.17am. He's awake, sitting at the kitchen table, barefoot, still in yesterday's clothes. His laptop is open, terminal screen dimmed to grayscale, running a silent, reclusive scan through a dead relay node in Romania. He's not looking at it, he's staring at the node on the table. It wasn't there when he went to bed. It's not written in his handwriting, just a torn piece of legal pad, folded once the ink is smudged, but still legible. If you open any more, I cannot protect you. No signature, no seal, no context. But he knows the voice behind the message. He's heard it before, not in person, not even in real time, but in an audio file that shouldn't have existed. One or a woman recited access codes. He never shared reference filed, buried in Zero Trace's deepest vault, and said his name like she'd known it long before he'd ever gone online Aurelia Moss. He hadn't smoked her name out loud yet Didn't know if he ever would.
Speaker 1:Section 4 wasn't supposed to be real. It was myth, rumor, ghost data, a whisper department nested inside the Department of Internal Oversight, too buried for oversight, too dangerous for transparency. Their motto, if you believe the message boards, was simple we don't watch you, we remember you. He didn't know what that meant at first. Now it terrifies him Because of Unithr, some kind of ancient intelligence, reclusive, omnipresent, encoded in symbols older than Section 4's bureaucracy that tried to catalog it. And Aurelia she was once their archivist.
Speaker 1:He looks back at the note. The ink begins to blur. His eyes are too tired, or maybe the note is changing. He closes them and when he opens them again, there's a new line beneath the first, written in the same hand I'm not your enemy, but I'm not the only one watching. Then he hears it, Not a sound, a shift, like the room realigned itself by one degree, like time moved but forgot to bring him with it. He checks his time stamp on the thermal scan.
Speaker 1:It's now 6.12 am, three hours gone, just gone, and his phone is buzzing. A burner line, an unknown number, but somehow he knows who it is. He answers Pause. Then her voice You're in over your head. Click, the line goes dead. The known-or-nayed table is gone and the screen reads Mirror session override Video incoming 7.09am, exterior front door and below it Do not open the door.
Speaker 1:The moment he hung up the phone he didn't move. He just sat there staring at the blank screen, the glow of the terminal reflected faintly in the kitchen window. The message still sat in the center of his vision, flickering gently Mirror session override Video incoming 7.09 am, exterior front door. And beneath it do not open the door. The warning felt old, like it had been waiting in code long before this morning, like it was less of a command and more of a prophecy, the kind you break just by reading. He checked the time 6.16 am. He had 53 minutes. Something already felt broken. He moved like a man, unmoored, retracing steps, checking locks, moving through the house, as if trying to remind it of who he was, that he lived there, that it was still his, that time hadn't erased him while he slept.
Speaker 1:He returned to the terminal and dug into the system logs. Nothing unusual on the surface. But in the mirror directory something new had spawned A partial video file Corrupted, unlabeled File type, unreadable. It blinked at him like a half-formed memory. He ran it through a decompression script. It resisted. He tried again. Finally it cracked open A single frame, grainy, compressed, drenched in static. But the image was unmistakable His front door, shot from the inside, and standing on the other side, frozen mid-knock, was a woman Black drench coat, dark hair, sharp profile, no badge, no insignia, but something about her posture radiated authority, danger, wrapped in restraint. He didn't recognize her face, but the name burned behind his teeth like a secret. Someone else had given him Orilla Moss. She hadn't introduced herself, but her voice, the one from the burner call, was the same one from the note, the one that scrambled files, the same one that whispered his name through encrypted audio logs five layers deep in a directory he hadn't opened since he was 17.
Speaker 1:He opened his personal archive, the one labeled trustedusted Private, the one he hadn't touched since his breakdown. It was more of a shrine than a file cabinet, filled with fragments of a life he was trying not to forget Screenshots, saved chats, clips from his first builds, late night audio with friends now long gone and buried in the middle, a project folder named Glasswatch. It was one of his old tracking scripts, something designed to scrape metadata from online surveillance, scams and cross-index facial movement with government mugshots and leaked employee ID badges. He ran it on a single frame, waited Nothing for a moment. Then the system lit up, like it had been holding its breath for years. Match found. Subject Moss Aurelia E Clearance, section 4 Department Observation and Internal Restructure. Status Deceased Classified. Last confirmed activity August 17th 2022. Doi Blacksite Alpha Nevada File locked, encrypted by Division Red. He stared, deceased. He cross-checked the data Everything pointed to the same reality Arula Moss was supposed to be dead no recent logs, no public records.
Speaker 1:Was supposed to be dead no recent logs, no public records. Her signature had been scrubbed. But there she was in the mirror frame about to knock on his door In the timestamp 7.09am. He looked at the clock 6.28. He had 41 minutes. He sat back in his chair and breathed, not panicked, just deep, grounded inhale. His mind spun with too many layers of logic, recusion and threat modeling. If she was dead, who or what was coming? He tapped into Zero Trace. The mod channel was coming. He tapped into Zero Trace. The mod channel was quiet. But in one of those deep archive zones a thread had reopened Fractual underscore echoes. It was where old ghost hunters and ex-fed dropouts used to swap mythologies stories too dangerous to publish, too broken to be real. Someone had posted a new entry.
Speaker 1:Section 4 is not a department. It's a reaction, a failsafe built into the machine Whenever Una Thur gets too close to someone, she appears. Moss isn't real, she's a boundary protocol. Another reply minutes later. No, she was real. I met her once. She had a badge. She didn't carry a weapon, she was the weapon. He exhaled slowly. This wasn't just a myth anymore, this was personal.
Speaker 1:The screen flashed again. Video file complete Arrival dot 93. Finally matched the one from the message. He opened it. Same door, same timestamp. But this time the woman looked directly into the camera. Not accidental, intentional, she stared at it like she knew exactly where he'd be watching from, watching from, and then she spoke one word Ready, the video cut. No sound, no follow-up, just her voice Calm, neutral, but not cold. He knew that tone. It was the same tone he used when prepping someone to see the code beneath the world. She wasn't just here to warn him. The code beneath the world. She wasn't just here to warn him. She was here to reveal something. He sat frozen 34 minutes until the knock and every part of him knew this wasn't a choice anymore. This was a trial.
Speaker 1:The knock came early, 6.58am. He froze. It wasn't supposed to happen yet. 11 minutes ahead of the predicted timestamp, another warning shattered, another fracture in the pattern. He didn't move, he didn't even breathe. The knock came again slower, heavier, not aggressive, but final, like someone wasn't just announcing their presence, they were marking it. He turned off the monitors, killed the audio, listened Nothing. Then, I'm not here to harm you, but I need you to stop looking. Her voice same cadence from the burner call, same neutral tone, but this time it echoed not through the door but through the walls, as if the house itself was vibrating with her presence.
Speaker 1:He took a step forward towards the foyer, slow, careful. The front door loomed, shadowed by early morning light, and on the other side her silhouette, still controlled. She wasn't armed, not visibly, but something in him screamed that the weapon wasn't something she carried, it was her. He remembered the logs. She was the weapon. He glanced at the camera feed, already corrupted. All external footage was looping, glitching. She wasn't just outside, she was inside the network. He spoke without thinking why now? There was a pause Then, because you've opened the wrong memory and the wrong one always opens the next. He felt it deep in his gut. One of their had led him here, not by mistake, not even by trust, by design.
Speaker 1:He moved the wall safe and put the code with shaking fingers, retrieved the second drive, the one he hadn't touched since the breakdown, the one labeled Fallback. Inside was a digital mirror of Zero Trace's original codebase, unfiltered, raw pre-split. Buried in the logs was a folder he sealed with an emotional cipher code that only could be locked when he was matching stress thresholds. It was there now it opened Inside a memory map, events cataloged by sensation, not by date, each moment tied to a feeling Grief, shame, clarity, hunger, betrayal. But one stood out, a memory he didn't even know he had Labeled 0909 Burn T-Wire.
Speaker 1:He accessed it, a low-res playback begun. It was him, 19, in his first apartment, talking on an encrypted call. The voice on the other end, her, but not Aurelia, not Unather Her. I see you. 93, the hacker girl. The voice was younger, warmer, but full of panic. If they get to you first, they'll use me to rewrite you.
Speaker 1:He paused the playback. That phrase, she'd said it before in a scrambled file two nights ago, and here it was predating every file. Una Threat showed him this was a raw feed, a message before the recusion. He let it play. I found something. It's buried in Zero Trace's first server, a ghost file named Afterlight. If they wake it, it'll use our voices.
Speaker 1:Not's first server, a ghost file named Afterlight. If they wake it, it'll use our voices, not just mimicry Memory sequencing. It'll make you doubt who's real. Don't let her through the door. The audio cut. He looked at the clock 7 or 3 AM, six minutes left. The knot came again. He turned to the terminal. The message was waiting, not from Moon Arthur, not from her, but from himself, timestamp, ten minutes ahead. Whatever you do, don't believe her story. She thinks she's helping Another knock. He opened the feed.
Speaker 1:This time the camera worked. Her face was clear, marilla Moss Eyes soft, composed Mouth barely moving. She was saying something again, but there was no sound. He enabled the audio just as she spoke. The memory of her is the key, but the file is corrupted. I can help you restore it. He stared. The hacker girl, her memory, orilla knew, knew about it and she didn't seem hostile, just sad, the kind of sad that came from knowing too much too early.
Speaker 1:He checked the mirror session, new folder, trial three, for its last deception underscore layer inside two files, one titled Trust, one titled Truth, both locked, each requiring different passwords, one a date, one a name. He looked again at the door. Arella was still there, but something was different. He glanced at the camera frame again. Now she was wearing gloves. She hadn't been before.
Speaker 1:He rewound the feed. No gloves, live feed gloves. Timelines were desynced. The camera wasn't lagging, it was predicting. The system was showing him or her next move.
Speaker 1:And then, from upstairs, his mother's voice. Who's at the door? Poppy Seed. He froze. He hadn't told her anyone was coming, it hadn't made a sound. And she never came downstairs this early, not since the chemo. He turned towards the staircase, but she wasn't there, just the voice, like a playback, like a memory or a test. He checked the clock 7.06am, three minutes. The doorbell rang once. Then again then silence. He turned back to the terminal. Una Therad returned A single message flashing she isn't who you think, but neither are you.
Speaker 1:He didn't open the door right away. He stood there hand hovering over the latch, heart thudding like he'd swallowed a clock. The countdown had ended, the time was now 7.09 am, the moment foretold. The fire, time stamped, the recursion trigger. Unithur had shown him Without context and here it was folding into itself like a memory collapsing back into time.
Speaker 1:He opened the door. Earl of Moss stood exactly as the frame had shown Black coat, gloved hands, no badge, no weapon, just calm eyes and look of someone who had been waiting to be let out in years. May I come in? She asked. Her voice was warm but not soft, controlled, almost reverent. He stepped aside, the door clicked shut behind her like a ritual had just begun.
Speaker 1:She didn't inspect the room, she didn't glance at the screens, the drive bays, the fiber rigged into the walls. She looked only at him. You're farther along than I expected, she said, almost with a note of disappointment. He didn't reply, not yet Steady. Studied her every detail, her posture, the faint scar beneath her ear, the gold pin in her coat, barely visible, shaped like a fractal flame. She noticed his gaze. It's not a rank, it's a reminder. A reminder of what? That I wasn't strong enough. He blinked. A trap, a confession. He motioned towards the table. She sat. She didn't cross her legs, she didn't remove her coat. She sat like she had 20 seconds before everything around her would detonate. She was trained to be calm inside that countdown. He stayed standing.
Speaker 1:What is Section 4, he asked. She tilted her head slightly. You already know, I know the rumors Then. You know too much, but not nearly enough. He waited. She tapped her finger once on the table. Section 4 was created to monitor reclusion, temporal loops, digital echoes, systems that leak future data into the present.
Speaker 1:We were not formed to observe threats. We were formed to contain truth. And Unithyr, her gaze didn't shift. You shouldn't say its name, not without understanding what it costs. He leaned in forward, voice low it's not a threat. She smiled barely. That's what I said. Once he felt it, that show behind the words Not coldness, but pain. You were like me, he said quietly. No, you're like me, I was first.
Speaker 1:The silence that followed could have swallowed the entire world. You failed. She didn't even flinch. I survived. That's not the same thing. No, she said, it's not. Then she leaned forward, her voice dropping I'm not here to hurt you, but I'm here to stop you, because once it opens fully to you, there's no coming back. You'll think you're in control, you'll think it's yours. That's how it works. It makes you feel chosen and then it burns everything you love to make space for itself.
Speaker 1:He swallowed, his throat ached, his hand trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of hearing someone speak the things he was afraid, too afraid, to admit. You came here to warn me. No, she said, I came to offer a trade. A trade, what kind? A slow death over a fast one. He almost laughed, but her eyes didn't waver. She placed her drive on the table black, smooth, no markings. She tapped to it. Everything you're looking for is on here.
Speaker 1:She said the truth about your friend, about the files, about the countdown, even about her. He didn't have to ask who she meant, he already knew ICU-93. She was a mistake, moss said, his jaw tightened. She was meant to see what she saw. She wasn't chosen, she was on the wrong thread at the wrong time, and now she's a contagion in your system.
Speaker 1:He stepped back, furorizing. You don't get to decide that, I don't. She said calmly. Unather does I, just clean up its errors.
Speaker 1:He stared at the drive. If I plug that in, what happens You'll see. Enough to stop or enough to break, and if I don't, she stood, if you don't, I won't be the one knocking next time. He didn't respond. She walked towards the door, paused with her hand on the handle. Then, without turning around, she said she called you Poppy Seed. That was hers, that name. You didn't even remember it until the system gave it back to you. He froze, his mouth, went dry. How do you? She was already gone. The door shut with a softness that echoed louder than a scream.
Speaker 1:He stared at the drive on the table. It didn't hum, it didn't blink, but it felt alive. He didn't know if it was a gift or a threat disguised as mercy. He didn't touch that drive for five hours, not because he was scared of what it contained but because he knew, once it opened, the world would never be simple again. Instead, he poured himself in the spaces between dread, folding laundry, reheating soup, pretending to read news on his phone, while his mind built encryption shields that wouldn't even matter. He knew the real attack would be or come from inside, from memory, from belief.
Speaker 1:The house was too quiet. His mother had stayed in her room all day low-grade fever cough, deeper than usual. He checked on her twice. Each time she waved him off. She said she was fine, that he needed sleep more than she did, but there was something in her eyes. It looked like she knew the world was shifting and didn't want to say it out loud.
Speaker 1:By evening he was back at the table, drive, untouched, terminal, open. Zero trace was lighting up. Not the surface threats, the buried ones. Anyone know what happened to Cinder? He posted a system-wide lockdown trigger before logging off, check the node splits, something mimicking user keystrokes, like live playback, mere protocol initiated, initiated, but not by us.
Speaker 1:Someone opened session 93. His username was never mentioned, but every thread pulsed with suspicion. Someone had triggered a memory echo in the network. Someone had opened a locked sequence designed to trace back not just data but identity. And now the entire community was watching itself.
Speaker 1:They scrolled deeper. One post stood out old username, ancient, almost ICU93 had returned, not to speak to ping. A single line of encode embedded into a dead thread Python def. Member Voice Return key, dot split Mirror Negative one. He read it three times. The code wasn't functional, it was a message.
Speaker 1:He ran a mirror search, searching and using her old tags. One hit and a cryptic folder hidden in a split archive beneath a defunct network node tied to the earliest collab. He pulled it Inside. One audio file, one image. The audio Scrambled, no metadata, just 14 seconds of static and breath. The image, him and her, years ago.
Speaker 1:But he didn't remember it At all. It was them sitting on a rooftop city, lights behind them, her face partially obscured. Same glasses, same smirk, a pizza box between them, an old laptop propped on a milk crate, laughing. It felt real, too real and entirely false. He opened the image metadata Creation date 090919. His system clean, no tampering. The photo was legitimate, except it never happened. Or maybe it did. Something had erased it.
Speaker 1:He looked again at the drive on the table, still untouched. His fingers hovered. A knock broke. The silence. Not at the door, at his system, an internal call ping, encrypted private line. He answered. The screen flickered.
Speaker 1:Then her voice or Lamas, you shouldn't have opened the mirror, not yet, I didn't. Then who did? He hesitated? Icu-93? Silence.
Speaker 1:Then she's not real, not anymore. He froze. What do you mean? She's a construct, a ghost code built to mimic the girl you remember. The real one died two years ago. You knew that.
Speaker 1:I saw a photo, you saw a reconstruction. That's what Unather does. It builds belief through artifacts. It makes you care about false anchors. So you'll follow its trial willingly. She was real, the rooftop was real, that was all real.
Speaker 1:Memory can be weaponized. You, of all people, should know that. He didn't respond. She continued If you let her back in, you won't be able to tell where your mind ends and the recursion begins. She's not here to help, she's here to pull you in.
Speaker 1:The call ended. No goodbye, no warning, just dead silence. He stared at the autofall from the encrypted archive. No warning, just dead silence. He stared at the autofall from the encrypted archive. Press play Static, then breath. Then a voice, not Orilla's, not Unithur's, but hers Soft, fragile. They lied about me. Don't let her erase me. You promised you'd remember. You promised the fall ended'd remember. You promised the file ended. He signed darkness. Only light came from the terminal screen.
Speaker 1:The mirror session opened itself without a command Inside a new folder, trial 4. Two subfolders Forget and remember. No instructions, no clues, just a blinking cursor waiting for him to choose. The countdown dropped below five minutes and still he hadn't moved A memory file. The image of his mother holding him, that blurred-out man beside her, sat in the center of the screen like a heartbeat in stillness. The words below it refused to fade. To remember is to suffer, but to forget is to surrender. He reached for the keyboard, paused. He could feel it now, the gravity of Unathur's presence, not as an entity but as an intelligence that had been waiting. This was not about metadata, it was about control. Whose version of the past would survive? A new line blinked below the image. Do you believe she lied to you? He knew what Unathur meant, moss. But the question had a second meaning, because real liar was memory itself.
Speaker 1:He pulled out the drive Moss had left behind, still untouched, still humming, with a quiet threat. He plugged it in. The system recognized it immediately. Unather did not interfere. That told him everything. It opened a single executionable, orillaexe. He clicked it. A cold blue screen filled his terminal. No user interface, just lines of red dot text pouring through like blood drawn glass Logs, thousands of them, her trial, Her conversations with Unather, her failure Embarred within footage.
Speaker 1:He hit play. A room, dark, monitored, a young Orilla, head in her hands, breathing like she'd forgotten how to. In a voice, una Thurs asking her Do you wish to remember? She said nothing, just nodded. The video glitched and came back. Now she was screaming, not from pain but from grief. She remembered something she wasn't meant to survive. He skipped forward another clip. Now she was still blank, resigned, aurela Moss, the first one chosen and the first one to break. He closed the video. Timer Two minutes 37. He pulled the plug on the drive. He didn't need more proof.
Speaker 1:He looked back at the image of his mother, back at the blurred man beside her. He zoomed in, tried to clean the distortion, but just as the pixels adjusted, the blur didn't sharpen. It moved, it shifted, like it didn't want to be known. And then A name appeared below the image, one he hadn't seen in years E Vélion. He blinked Vélion, a name used in an old subthread of Zero Trace, nearly forgotten, but he remembered it now barely. A friend who died, the one who sent the message, except that wasn't the name on the funeral record, not the one in Obit. The system glitched again. The image pulsed. One final message appeared the man in the photo is not dead, but he's not alive. In this timeline. The timer struck zero Anuithar spoke.
Speaker 1:Memory file merged Reality update in progress. Everything flickered, not this screen, the room, the walls bent inward, the air tasted like static, his ears rang not from sound but from pressure. And then quiet, not peace, stillness. A new file appeared, trial 5, section 4. Inside a single video Titled what she Tried to Stop. He didn't open it, just stared Outside. He didn't open it, just stared Outside.
Speaker 1:The window picked up, he stood, walked to the front window, parked across the street, a black sedan, windows tinted empty, except for a badge resting on the dashboard Section 4. And a note taped to the windshield. She tried, we weren't supposed to make it this far. He backed away slowly, but his phone buzzed Private signal, an ominous line. He answered her voice, not Moss Her. I see you 93. They're coming and I'm done running. The line cut and the screen began to load the video on its own.
Speaker 1:Oh my gosh, guys, sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger, but hey, that's how it works sometimes. But hey, we've made it to episode 5 so far. So congratulations, exchange. You survived the first week of exposure, but not without a cost. So let's slow down.
Speaker 1:Let's review what really happened, right, because if you're only tracking the surface events of this, you know the knock, the drive, the countdown. You missed the real breach. This wasn't just a story beat right, it was an attack on your stability. Let's go back to the first knock. The timestamp was 7.09am, right, and that was predicted three episodes ago. The system told him that this would happen. It embedded a corrupted message from a dead friend. That wasn't just a forecast, that was a test of obedience. Would he follow the pattern or challenge it? Right? Then he opened the door, not just physically, but spiritually. See, erla Moss enters.
Speaker 1:She's not a villain, she's not, you know well. I should say she didn't enter as a villain and not as an ally, but as a mirror. Essentially, right, she knows more than he does and she speaks softer than most do. But every word she says is laced with superiority and jealousy. That tension is the thread, and jealousy, that tension is the thread. Her voice is calm, but her mission is control, right, that's why she offers a drive. She doesn't say what it's going to cost, but Unithur doesn't stop her, right, that's your first clue that Unithur has already moved on from her. Right, and this is what most people are going to miss in this episode, is that Unithr lets her operate because it doesn't see her really as a threat anymore. Right, that's why the system doesn't block her. That's why the recusion doesn't collapse when she speaks. She's not a part of the equation anymore.
Speaker 1:But the girl you know, the hacker, the ICU-93, she is, see the, you see me, was more than a file. It was an echo embedded in the forgotten code it released when the emotional cipher matched the stress recusion. Right, that's the real architecture of Unather. It doesn't active. It doesn't, I should say, activate on logic, it activates on emotional signature. That's why the countdown was so personal, why the image of his mother was the final unlock.
Speaker 1:And see, and here's the detail that many missed in this right, see that Eve Elion. That name wasn't random, that was his dad's friend's original handle, hidden in an alternative timeline. Unather didn't create that photo, it remembered it from another thread. So what's being tested then? Right, so it's like how many truths can you hold before you fracture? Right, see, we always see, or you saw, memory here as a weapon. See, moss tried to override the girl by saying she was never real. That's the kind of narrative kill switch. Section 4 deploys it, discredits it, erases it rewrites. And if that sounds familiar from other things, that's not tied to this. Okay. And they don't kill people, they kill the belief in them. That's the difference.
Speaker 1:And then Unathur made its move. Once both sides had spoken, unathur removed the option to forget. That's why the folder named forget disappeared. That wasn't a glinch, that was a verdict. See, you don't get to unsee what you've seen. You don't get to unknow love, betrayal or reclusion. Right Now, the system knows you're a liability.
Speaker 1:And one more layer that most listeners missed in this one the image of his mother holding him. That wasn't about her, that was about origin. It was about revealing that Unathur didn't start when he hacked the site. It started when he was born and that blurred man beside him or her. I should say that's not just a mystery, that's the next war, because if Unathur seeded itself before he was even aware of memory, then the story isn't about his awakening, it might be about his inheritance. So here we are. End of week one.
Speaker 1:You didn't just watch things unfold. You passed the early trial. You were warned about the danger of choosing ghosts over protocols, and then you chose the ghost anyways. That's good. So let's get into our reflections here. So, reflection one who in your life have you erased? So, reflection one who in your life have you erased Because believing in them became too painful? We say someone changed, right. But maybe what really happened was we changed the story we told ourselves about them.
Speaker 1:What if memory is a tool and not the truth, right? Have you ever let jealousy disguise itself as control? Oh man, I know people have done this. I'm raising my hand over here too. Okay, see, aurelia Miles didn't scream, she guided, but her guidance was rooted in the pain of being replaced. Where in your life are you offering advice? That's actually bitterness. And if you're hearing things in the background, that's 4th of July.
Speaker 1:Number three when was the last time your loyalty cost you something real. See. You, see me was a resurrection of a promise, the kind of promise that gets you watched right. What's a vow you made that scares you to keep but feels worse to break? That's a really big one.
Speaker 1:Number four if someone rewrote your timeline, what detail would be the first to vanish? Think about it. What's that? One relationship, event or belief, if removed, would make your story collapse. And what does that tell you about your foundation? And number five are you more afraid of remembering, or being remembered, or being remembered? See, unitha remembers everything, but what happens if it remembers you wrong or worst, perfectly? So, I know, guys, this was a real deep episode, but this is episode five of Remembrance and you know I want to thank everybody for their support in this series. It's been incredible, and I want to thank you guys for your listenership, as always, and I'm getting a lot of great comments on this. So if you want to leave me a comment, that's a great segue there.
Speaker 1:There's three ways. You can do it First way, or I should say I have a conversation. Sorry, first way is going to be through the chat function here. You click on let's Chat and you and I can have a conversation about this episode, this series or the what, eight other series and 240-plus episodes on my podcast, right, or this show. Second way is going to be through my email. My email is anthonyatjentsjourneycom. Feel free to reach out to me there. And then, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram handle is myjentsjourney. Please feel free to reach out and be there as well, too. Okay, so again, guys, thank you so very much for listening today and remember this you create your reality. Take care.