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
Death of Peace Of Mind: The One Who Remembered Wrong.
What if the memories you trust most are the ones you've edited beyond recognition?
Detective Grayson's world unravels when he discovers evidence of actions he has no recollection of performing—a tape recording in his voice, photographs placing him at scenes he never visited, and reflections that move independently of him. As he investigates this mystery with his partner Black, he confronts a terrifying possibility: perhaps he isn't just the detective in this case, but also its subject.
Through this riveting psychological thriller, we explore how memory functions not as a faithful archive but as an active performance. Our minds don't simply store experiences—they continuously reconstruct them, blurring the line between what happened and what we've rehearsed telling ourselves happened. With each retelling, we sharpen details we prefer and erase those we don't, until we can no longer distinguish between genuine recollection and curated narrative.
The episode confronts us with powerful questions about our own lives: What stories have you told yourself so many times that you've forgotten they're edited versions of truth? Who bears the cost of what you've chosen to forget? What reflections do you avoid because they might show versions of yourself you're not ready to acknowledge?
Memory isn't just personal—it's interpersonal. The gaps in your remembering affect everyone who needed you to recall accurately. The silences in your story aren't neutral spaces but active editors, rewriting your past when you refuse to face it. As Grayson discovers, forgetting isn't just absence; it's a presence that demands payment.
Stop rehearsing the same stories about who you are and what happened to you. Look at your truth without editing, speak it without rehearsing, and recognize that peace doesn't come from erasing your past but from honestly confronting it. Your life isn't just a case to solve—it's a narrative to reclaim.
Connect with me through the podcast description link, email me at anthony@gentsjourney.com, or find me on Instagram @mygentsjourney. Remember: you create your reality.
"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 seven. We only got three episodes left, guys, isn't it crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy? And this episode is called the One who Remembered Wrong. So let's go ahead and let's get in the cold opening.
Speaker 1:Chicago, november 1981. The light in room 3B flickers with a rhythm that doesn't belong to electricity. It's the pulse of a bad memory trapped in drywall. The table is metal, it's cold, the walls are bare, except for peeling paint and the smell of bleach. That never did its job. A reel-to-reel recorder sits on the desk, tape-threaded wheels waiting.
Speaker 1:Danny Shroud is 21 and already looks 50. Sweating through his second-hand shirt, knuckles raw from trying to prove something. Outside these walls he sits hunched head down, eyes darting, like a rat that knows every tunnel ends in a trap. Across from him, grayson. Younger, sharper, his suit still carries the arrogant of fresh tailoring. His voice isn't gravel yet it's a blade, thin and precise. A cigarette burns slow between his fingers, ash, threatening to fall onto the file he hasn't bothered to open. You know why you're here, danny. Danny shakes his head Quick and nervous. I didn't. Grayson cuts him off, doesn't raise his voice, doesn't need to. You did, you just haven't admitted it yet. Real spin, static fills the silence, recording absence as faithfully as it records confession.
Speaker 1:Grayson leads forward. Here's the thing about memory. It's a terrible witness but it's a good weapon. We can sharpen it, we can file it down, we can make it say what we need. Danny stammers, I swear I didn't. Grayson taps the file, doesn't even open it, just the gesture. Paper says you did, but paper doesn't forget. He slides the cigarette across the table close enough for Danny to smell the burn. All you have to do is remember it my way. Danny looks at the recorder and the cigarette, at the man across from him who looks too certain to be wrong. His shoulders collapse, the reels spin. Fine, danny whispers, I'll say it. Grayson leans back, smoke curling around him like a punctuation. Good, now let's begin. The tape hisses, the reel clicks, light flickers once then dies.
Speaker 1:Chicago, 1987. February. The precinct smells different, smells like rust and wet paper. Grayson stands in front of a half-marked archive, 1981. Every box is half-collapsed, files eaten by damp. He pulls one down Inside nothing but dust, no files, no photos, no paper, only a reel-to-reel tape. The label is smeared, red edges burned, two words scrawled in handwriting he should know, but doesn't recognize 3B Confession. He takes it upstairs, sits it on his desk. Black is gone for the night.
Speaker 1:The bullpen is empty, except for the hum of the vending machine and the soft tick of radiators. Trying to hold the cold back, he threads the tape. It's play Static. First. Then a voice, danny Stroud. Radiators trying to hold the cold back. He threads the tape. It's play Static. First then a voice, danny Stroud. Fine, I'll say it, grayson stiffens. He knows the name. He remembers the case file Kit, picked up for assault, flipped on someone bigger. He doesn't remember this. He doesn't remember ever sitting in that room.
Speaker 1:On the tape, another voice cuts in His own, younger and sharper. Good, now let's begin. The sound rips through him like shrapnel. It's not just his voice, it's his cadence, it's his rhythm, his choice of words. But it is in his memory. He rewinds and plays it again. You know why you're here, danny. He rewinds it again. Here's the thing about memory. Again, all you have to do is remember it my way. The words, they burrow in. He knows them, he doesn't know them. He doesn't know them. On the desk, beside the spinning reel, something new appears A matchbook, curled edges, blackened. He picks it up and opens it Inside in the red ink the one who taught the lie, forget the truth. He drops it like it burned him. The reels keep spinning, danny's voice breaks into sobs and then silence. No click, no end of tape, just silence stretching. Grayson looks up, across the bullpen, the glass pane as an observation window reflects his desk, his chair, his cigarette smoke, but not him. The mirror is empty. Music seeps from the floor below, but not him. The mirror is empty. Music seeps from the floor below, faint but deliberate joy-division atmosphere. Don't walk away In silence. The lyric threads through the silence like a knife. Grayson leans forward, staring into the glass, waiting for his reflection to return. It doesn't. Only the tape moves, the reel spinning, recording a memory that never belonged to him. Part One the Tape you Never Made. The reel hasn't stopped since he pressed play. Danny Stroud's voice cycles in and out of smoke around Grayson's desk. Sometimes it's clear, sometimes it wavers, like the tape itself is trying to decide what decade it belongs to. Fine, I'll say it. Good, now let's begin. That younger voice, the one with sharper edges and no gravel in his throat, keeps hitting him in the chest. He knows it's his. The cadence is his, the rhythm, the pauses, but every time it speaks his body's different, like he's hearing a stranger wearing his mouth.
Speaker 1:The precinct at 3 am is a mausoleum. Phones, sleep Desks are abandoned. A vending machine rattles like someone's shaking it in the next room, but no one is. The silence is thicker than a cigarette haze. Grayson leans forward, elbows heavy on the desk, staring at the wheels. Spin the cigarette, burns down unsmoked, lets the ash fall onto the yellow legal pad, doesn't bother to wipe it away. Danny sobs sleek out of the speaker. Then that voice again. You know why you're here, danny Grayson.
Speaker 1:Rewinds, plays it again. Rewinds, plays. Each time it lands harder, like a fist tightening. On the third rewind, something new bleeds onto the words Faint hum, Not tape, hiss, not static. A tune trying to crawl through the machine, the low synth of a bassline push against the silence until he recognizes it. The Pesh mode Lie to me. The lyrics don't come, yet it's the opening groove spilling through, as if the tape is bleeding into the other room's memory.
Speaker 1:Grayson shuts the deck off, the hum dies, but when the reels stop, the song doesn't. It keeps playing faintly through the vents, the same beat rising, pushing in from the basement archive. He pushes the chair back. The scrape echoes too loud and the bullpen being empty, he stands palms flat on the desk, looks at the tape, looks at the matchbook beside it, still open, still red ink. The one who taught the lie. Yet the truth? His throat tightens. He flips the book closed hard, like shutting a file. He can't stomach Footsteps. He can't stomach Footsteps. He doesn't turn. He knows the sound. It's black.
Speaker 1:She comes in with her coat, half-zipped, hair damp from rain, leather jacket creaking like it's alive. Paper cup of coffee in one hand, notepad in the other. She sets them both down without speaking. Couldn't sleep. She asks. Grayson doesn't answer. He gestures to the deck Listen. She frowns, but bends hits play.
Speaker 1:Danny's voice sputters out the sobs, the confession. Then the younger voice, his voice cutting through Black freezes, turns to him. That's you, she says. Not a question, it isn't. He says. Almost too fast, not like that.
Speaker 1:She lets the tape run. Here's him coaching Danny, leading him. Here's the words that don't belong to the man standing in front of her. Now, finally, she stops it. The reels spin down, winding into silence. Her pen taps against the notepad. When was this 1981. He mutters.
Speaker 1:She flips through mental files. Stroud, pretty petty assault Stroud, pretty petty assault, turned informant. Case disappeared. He nods. Once you were the lead. No, then why are you on the tape? He looks at the floor, then back at her. I don't remember. She studies him. Lines on her eyes deepen. Walter, that's not a small thing to forget. He sits and claps tight. I, I know Black picks up the matchbook, opens it, reads the line.
Speaker 1:Her jaw tightens. She sits it down like evidence in a trial. You're being played. She says Okay, by who? He asks Same person who staged every other scene. She says the Greenbrier. They want you doubting your own memory. They want you thinking you're a part of it. He almost laughs but catches it in his throat. What if I am? Black stares him like she's weighing her own pulse. Then I'm already dead. The air between them goes still. Grayson leans back staring at the ceiling tiles, at the vent rattling with lie to me. Lyrics finally arrive, faint but undeniable. Lie to me. Whisper what I want to hear. Black hears it too. Her eyes flick up. Then back to him. Radio bleed, not from here, he says. She grabs her coat, throws it on. Then let's go.
Speaker 1:The basement archive is colder than outside. Rolls of metal shelves, boxes sagging like they've been waiting decades for someone to care. The hum of an old generator seeps through the walls like a second heartbeat. Black leads with her flashlight beaming across labels 1981, 1982, 1983. She stops at the 1981 shelf. Every box is empty except one. He pulls it down and opens it Nothing but dust. Grayson frowns, reaches past her, grabs the next box, also empty. He drags another one down. Same thing. Finally, at the bottom of the stack Box, heavier than it looks, he holds it onto the table and he opens it Inside a single reel identical to the one upstairs.
Speaker 1:Label 3B Interrogation. Black's light holds steady, she doesn't touch it. That room was out of service in 1981, she says. I checked Plumbing failure, boarded up, no interrogations. Then how? He starts, but she cuts him off. Someone's rewriting the files.
Speaker 1:They both stare at the reel. The vent above them hums louder, the song bleeds stronger. Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies. Black curses under her breath, though the words don't sound like hers. She closes the box, bag it, we'll log it. Grayson hesitates you think it's evidence? No, she says, I think it's bait.
Speaker 1:The generator thumps once hard, like the building agreed. Grayson looks at her eyes hollow. What if the tape isn't lying? What if it is me? Black meets his greys, holds it, doesn't blink. Then say it out loud before the room does. She shoulders past him carrying the box. She stays a moment longer Staring at the vent, the way the dust spirals in rhythm with the song. His reflection stares back from the glass of the archive door For a second. It doesn't move when he does and it smiles he doesn't. The light above them flickers once, twice and goes dark.
Speaker 1:Part 2 the file that wasn't there. The light above them flickers once, twice and goes dark Part 2. The File that Wasn't there. The basement has never felt this empty. Black carries the box like it's deceased. The real inside rattles once against the cardboard, then falls silent. She seals it with tape, marks the lid with her clean black handwriting.
Speaker 1:Evidence Straub Grayson lingers behind His eyes keep darting back to the shelves, to the labels stenciled years ago in black paint 1981. 1982. 1983. Roles that should be heavy with history. But every time he pulls a folder it crumbles in his hands. Pages blink, photographs fogged out. The past is a room that someone has been erasing.
Speaker 1:Black notices the way he stands frozen, one hand pressed against the shelf like he's studying himself. Walter, he says voice clipped. We got what we came for. He doesn't move. His fingers trace the edge of empty file spines, pulls it out, opens it Nothing. No report, no paper, just the faint smell of mildew and dust that shouldn't be this strong. On an empty folder, every file, he mutters, every single one. They'll be somewhere else, she says, though she doesn't sound like she believes it. He reaches for another one, empty, another, nothing. Finally, at the back of the row, a thin box tucked sideways, like it was hidden. He drags it out and the dust coats his sleeve. The lid resists before snapping loose Inside a reel smaller than the others, labeled in red ink.
Speaker 1:Directive Black steps closer Don't play it. Grayson already has it in his hands. Why not? Because it's not evidence. He says it's bait. You heard the other one. It's not a record, it's a script. He threads it in the portable deck anyways.
Speaker 1:The wheels grow and the tape hisses. Then his own voice cuts through, calm, commanding. Younger. He will confess. He will forget the trade is made. The words slice through him as chest tightens. His fingers hover above the stop button but won't press it.
Speaker 1:Black slams her palm down and kills the reel. The room swallows the silence. Her eyes cut into him. You hear what that was? Not a statement, a directive, a rule written for you to follow. He looks at her throat dry. So which one did I do? Did I make him forget or did I make him confess? Neither them answers. Above them, the dockwork rattles. A draft snakes through the aisles of shelves, hearing the faint opening chords of Echo and the Bunnymen, the kindling moon. The sound crawls along the concrete low end, inevitable Fate, up against your will. Black exhales hard, like she's trying to keep her own pulse steady. She sets the box and seals it. Writes again in bold directive do not play. Grayson doesn't look away from the deck. His reflection stares back in the metal casing, lips moving just out of sync.
Speaker 1:Back upstairs, the board is waiting Photos of Eli Ramos, miri Hayes and Lindum, lines connecting them in red thread, the IOUs, the matchbooks, the polarites. Black stands in front of it, marker in hand adds a new square Danny Shroud status forgotten. Draws a line from his name to the blank space. Grayson frowns he's not dead. No, she says he's worse, he's missing. She caps the marker.
Speaker 1:This isn't about killing anymore, it's about erasing. Whatever we're chasing isn't just stacking bodies. They're rewriting history and deleting it. Grayson sinks into his chair, head in his hands, deleting me. Her eyes flick toward him but not soften. Grayson sinks into his chair, head in his hands, deleting me. Her eyes flick toward him but not soften. You're not the victim here, walter. He looks up. Holler, aren't I silence? Then a knock at the office door. Both of them look up. No one's there. The sound came from inside his closet.
Speaker 1:Black hand, goes to her sidearm, crosses the room, yanks the closet door open, empties just his coat and a stack of boxes On the floor. A file folder that wasn't there before. She picks it up, flips it open Inside a single sheet of paper no report header, no case number, just one line in writing the one who remembered wrong. She sits on his desk, stares at him that mean anything to you. He doesn't answer, she doesn't press. She turns back to the board, uncapped the marker and writes under his name alias the one who remembered wrong.
Speaker 1:Grayson stares at the file. His pulse hammers. The vent above them hums. The song bleeds louder Under blue moon. I saw you. The lyrics hang in the room like a curse. Black looks at him, voice low. This isn't about Stroud anymore, it's about you. You're the file Kirk's, hanging in the room like a curse. Black looks at him, voice low this isn't about Stroud anymore, it's about you. You're the foul. That wasn't there. Grayson can't argue, he doesn't even try. The music swells filling the walls. Killing Moon will come too soon. The reel in his desk clicks, unspooling itself. The tape spills across the wood like vines. Neither of them moves to stop it.
Speaker 1:Part 3 the Nocta Didn't Happen. The folder sits on Grayson's desk Like it owns the room. Black hasn't moved since he laid it down. The words stamp across the cover. The one who remembered wrong Glow under the desk, lamp Edges curling as if the page has been waiting too long to be read.
Speaker 1:Grayson finally reaches for it. His hand hovers, then lands the cardboard. Feels warm, too warm for paper. He flips it open Inside a single photograph Brainy, black and white. The kind of Polaroid that shouldn't have survived six years in a file drawer, let alone appeared in a closet that was empty. Seconds before the image shows room 217. He knows it immediately the warped floorboards, the cracked plaster above the dresser, faint shadow where the mirror used to hang In the center of the room.
Speaker 1:Grayson Not the man sitting here at the desk, a younger version, shoulders squared, eyes locked onto something outside the frame Next to him, another figure, blurred Human shape, male maybe, head tilted toward him like they're in mid-conversation. Black leans over his shoulder. Who's that? I don't know Bullshit. Grayson stares at the figure. Flur seems to breathe. The longer he looks, the more it sharpens, not into detail but into awareness, as if whoever it is knows he's staring back.
Speaker 1:Black picks up the photo, turns it over Blank, no stamp, no date, just this faintest smudge of red, like a fingerprint dragged across wet ink. You're in the room, she says, but you don't remember being there. Grayson shakes his head. His pulse won't slow. No, not then, not with him. Before he can finish, a noise cuts them off, knocking, not at the office door, not at the glass or inside the closet, same closet she already opened. The knock comes again, three sharp raps, too precise to be the building settling. Black draws her weapon, throws the door open, empty, just his coat, the boxes, the space where the file had been, she exhales, lowers the gun, being led. Grayson's eyes flick back to the desk. The photo lies face up again, but now the blurred figure is sharper. The set is turned, looking directly at the camera, directly at them.
Speaker 1:The precinct hums differently at night. The lights, overhead buzz like they're running through molasses. The air vents push out drafts colder than the street. Black turns to her desk. Her monitor is on. She never touched it. Green text scrolls across the black screen. You asked to forget? The line repeats over and over, filling the screen. She tries to power it off but the button doesn't respond. She inks the plug from the wall. The monitor stays lit. Grayson watches the words crawl upward like a confession. He doesn't remember writing. You asked to forget. He mutters Forget what. The screen doesn't answer, it just keeps printing. Black slams the monitor off the desk. It hits the floor, glass shattering, sparks coughing out. The words vanish. When she turns back to her notepad, the phrase is written across the page ten times In her own handwriting. She drops the pen. This is a fucking setup. Grayson shakes his head, voice hollow. No, it's a reminder.
Speaker 1:They go back to room 217. The building is quiet as a church with no congregation. The door creaks like it's been waiting Inside. The air is stale. Floorboards remember every step. The walls are scarred with water damage, cracks running like veins Across the back wall. A written in hand they both recognize his is a single word Remember. Below it a date November 12th 1981.
Speaker 1:Grayson chest tightens. That's the day, what day? Black asks. He won't answer. She moves towards the dresser. The surface is bare except for Polaroid. Lying face down. She flips it. It's the same photo of Grayson in the room, the blurred figure beside him, but this one is different. In this version the dresser in the background has a photo on it, the photo of the photo they're holding. The loop tightens. Grayson takes it, holds it closer. His hands shake. The blurred figure seems sharper again, head angled just enough to show awareness. His mouth is curved almost a smile. Black steps back, scanning the walls, every crack, every stain, feels deliberate. Now this isn't a room, she mutters, it's a recording. Grayson looks at the folder. No, he says it's a rehearsal. Back at the precinct.
Speaker 1:The Polaroid develops wrong. Black had tucked it into the evidence sleeve when she slid it out again out of the desk lamp. The image has changed. The figure isn't blurred anymore, it's looking directly at the camera, face still too smooth to identify but clear enough to radiate intent. And the younger version of Grayson isn't standing there. He's holding a camera, taking a photo. Black drops it on the desk like it burned her fingers. You took this.
Speaker 1:Grayson shakes his head, but his denial is thin, an echo of habit. No, he whispers. Not me. Then who? His reflection is darkened and the glass over the window doesn't move with him. The answer hangs in the silence, heavy as a body. The vents hum again. A new song filters through low and mournful Tears for fears. Memories fade. The lyrics soft but sharp enough to cut. Memories fade, but the scars still linger. Black presses her palms flat on the desk, grounding herself. We're not chasing a killer anymore, she says. We're chasing a script. Whoever wrote it isn't done with you. Grayson doesn't respond, his eyes locked on the folder, a younger version of himself staring back through a lens. A frozen memory he doesn't own. The song swells through the vents. The memories fade. The scars still linger. On the walls of the precinct feel closer than before. The office doors rattle once, as if someone tried. The knob, then stopped, but no one knocked. No one was there.
Speaker 1:Part 4. The Room that Stayed Open, room 217, doesn't breathe like other rooms. Every time Grayson steps inside, the air feels measured, like someone already decided how many seconds he'll be allowed before it takes them back. Tonight it's colder than the streets outside, the kind of cold that doesn't just bite skin, it bites memory. The walls are lined with mirrors, not just one, four, maybe five, each nailed to the plaster, at different heights, different angle. All of them cracked, some fractured down the middle, like lightning frozen glass. He sees himself in them, only it isn't him. Each reflection shows a different version One younger, sharper, the version that puts words in Danny Shroud's mouth. One older, notice heavier, baseline by secrets never confessed. One that looks directly back at him but doesn't blink when he does. And the one with hisoth moving, saying something he can't hear.
Speaker 1:Black steps inside, excite him. Her boots creak across the warped floorboards. She stops short, jesus. Her eyes dart from mirror to mirror. She sees it too. You said this room was sealed in 81? It was, he mutters. Okay, then explain this. He can't. The mirrors shimmer faintly under the flickering light bulb for a second. The cracked glass makes it look like each reflection is trapped behind bars, like different versions of him are waiting for parole.
Speaker 1:Grayson approaches the dresser On top, another Polaroid, face down. He hesitates, then flips it. Same image again Room 217, himself in the blurred figure. Only now the photo has developed further. The blur is clearer, heads titillated in a way that feels like mocking, and in the background the mirror shows him holding the camera. The loop is clearer. Head titilled in a way that feels like mocking, and in the background the mirror shows him holding the camera. The loop tightens. Black moves beside him. Jock clenched. Walter, I think this room is where you left something behind. He stares at the dresser. No, this is where someone or something stayed.
Speaker 1:Black picks up the Polaroid, slides into the evidence sleeve, but the photo develops even inside the plastic. The blurred mouth curves upward, a small bleeding through the grain. Behind them, the vent groans. A faint track slips out, tiny but warped. David Bowie, scary Monsters. The lyric slithers into the silence. She had a horror of rooms. She was tired, can't hide the beat. The song vibrates against the glass as if the mirrors themselves were speakers.
Speaker 1:Grayson glances at his reflection. The version. Grayson glances at his reflection. The version Looking back at him isn't smiling, it's watching. Why here? He whispers. Black scans the walls looking for answers that aren't there, because memory isn't safe in the dark. Whoever's running this knows where your cracks are. The room isn't haunted, it's curated.
Speaker 1:Grayson's hands tremble as he pulls open the dresser drawer. Inside, another Polaroid. This one wet Chemical, still streaking the surface, shows the exact moment he's standing in now himself, hand on the drawer, black behind him. He drops it. It lands face up, still wet, smearing the floor. Black swearsarez picks up it by the corner. It's developing while we're in it.
Speaker 1:The mirrors flicker. Each reflection lags a half a second behind its movements. One of them whispers. At first it's too faint, like glass hissing. Then the words sharpen, not yet. Grayson's knees almost buckle. He steps closer. His reflection doesn't Not yet what the mouth in the mirror curls. Black grabs his shoulder and yanks him back, don't? He stares into the cracked glass. His other self smiles wider.
Speaker 1:The boy track scratches on the coarse, bleeding distortion through the duct. Scary monsters, super creeps, keep me running, running. Scared. Grayson forces himself to look away. He picks up the new Polaroid. Again. The wet chemicals smear his fingers. His younger self in the photo looks calm, confident, a man who belongs here. Black wipes her palm against her. Jean, this isn't evidence, it's a performance. Okay then who's the audience? He mutters. The vent answers with another line of the song she asked me to stay and I stole her room. Lyrics cut him open. He drops the Polaroid. The image sticks to the floor. Chemicals spreading like blood, black kneels trying to steady her breath. Walter, walter, this isn't a case anymore. It's an autopsy of your memory. You're the body on the table. Grayson looks in the mirror as every version of himself stares back. None of them look away. For the first time he understands he isn't walking into rooms, the rooms are walking into him.
Speaker 1:Part 5 the man in the Mirror. The Polaroid won't stop developing, even after Black Bag said the. The colors keep bleeding, the lines sharpening as if the film isn't capturing a moment but finishing a script. On the desk, lamps glow, the image finally settles. Grayson stares at it. It's him, not the younger version, not the current one, not a blur. Him Standing in room 217, a camera raised to his face.
Speaker 1:The angle matches perfectly. He's not in the photograph, he's taking it. You feel his stomach lurch, like the floor has been cut out beneath him. Black sees it too. Her face goes pale, angle flickering under the shock. You took this. She says no, I didn't.
Speaker 1:She slams the photo down the desk. Walter, look at it, it's you. He shakes his head, not me, not yet. He shakes his head, not me, not yet. The words hang heavy in the air. Not yet Black's expression hardens. She doesn't argue, she doesn't need to. The photo argues for her Morning breaks through the precinct blinds and harsh stripes. The board looms over them, the faces of victims staring down like a jury.
Speaker 1:But something's wrong. Black's desk isn't empty. It's clear. Every file, every note, every photograph she pinned to the case gone. Only a single slip of paper left in the center. She picks it up. Reads for Draw Titans, he's not what you remember. She crushes the note in her fist. They're rewriting the case in real time. Grayson sinks into his chair, eyes fixed on the photo. Or are they rewriting me? She has an answer.
Speaker 1:That afternoon an envelope arrives, no return address. It's lit under the precinct door. Inside another photograph. This one isn't Polaroid, it's surveillance Grainy Telephoto Taken from across the street Two men walking side by side in the cold Coats, turned up against the wind, heads bent deep in conversation. Both are Grayson One younger, cigarette in his hand, one older jaw, clenched eyes ahead, side by side, in the same frame. Black spreads the photo on the desk between them. No-transcript, because what is there to say when the evidence stops accusing and starts narrating?
Speaker 1:Back at his apartment, the walls have learned new tricks. Ashbrack, creeping up from the baseboard, has twisted into the shape of a frame. Inside the thorny outline, vain impressions emerge, numbers, letters, as if it's writing, trying to write for him. Grayson rips it down, but the vines leave scars on the plaster. The words are faintly legible 3B. On his kitchen table, the polaroid waits where he didn't leave it. He picks it up, tapes it to the inside of his closet door, writes beneath it in red marker Not me, not yet. The marker squeals against the metal. The letter's jagged, desperate. The reflection in the closet mirror doesn't move with him. It's smiled.
Speaker 1:The vent's grown carrying another song through the pipes. The cure 100 years. The opening of the guitar hits like a blade dragged against concrete. It doesn't matter if we all die. Grayson closes his eyes, lets the lyrics sink into the room. His reflection doesn't close its eyes, it stares unblinking, impatient. Black's voice echoes in his head. You're the file that wasn't there. The photo stares from the door. Not me, not yet.
Speaker 1:The song hammers on relentless. A hundred years, a hundred years, a hundred years. Time folding, memory, lying. Evidence is in evidence. It's prophecy. He drops into the chair by the table Head. In his hands the cigarette burns out in the ashtray. He whispers to the empty room, voice breaking. Then who am I in now? The mirror doesn't answer. The song does. It's the same A hundred years, a hundred years, a hundred years, part 6. The Sound that Came After.
Speaker 1:The apartment is silent, except for the reel spinning on his table. Grayson sits across from it, cigarette trembling between his fingers. It smells curling, like it's trying to write messages in the air. The Polaroids are spread around him Danny Stroud's confession, room 217. The blurred figure, the surveillance photo of himself walking beside himself, gallery of ghosts, all signed in his own hand.
Speaker 1:The reel clicks. Danny's voice spills out again, ragged. I'll say it. I'll say whatever you want. Then his younger voice, calm, precise. Good, now let's begin. He shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to hear it anymore. The tape doesn't care.
Speaker 1:This time, when the reel rolls forward, there's something new, a third voice. It slides through the hiss like a knife through fabric, low and deliberate. He remembers what you gave him. Grayson's eyes snap open. He rewinds, plays it again. Danny's voice, his own, thin. He remembers what you gave him. He presses pause, stares at the deck like it just pulled a gun. The words weren't there before black bursts into the apartment, rain on her jacket, eyes hard. She sees the tape spreads the photos, the ash in the tray. You've been playing it again. He points to the desk like a listen, listen. She hesitates, then hits play Danny's, his younger voice, then the third voice. He remembers what you gave him.
Speaker 1:Black stiffens that wasn't on there. Before he says no. He mutters it wasn't. She ejects the tapes, unwinds a stretch, holds it up to light the brown ribbon glistens, faint ridges and the magnetic strip. She runs it through her fingers then stops. Look across the tape etched faintly into the oxide words shimmer, not audio, not voice writing. You wrote the script. Grayson's stomach nods that's not recording. Black says, voice hushed that's instruction. She drags him back to the precinct.
Speaker 1:The board looms over them, rearranged. The lines between the victims connect in patterns. Neither of them drew. The IOUs form a circle, the matchbooks a spine. In the center, a blank space waiting to be filled. Black grabs her marker, starts scrolling, notes arrows. She mutters under her breath this isn't a killer, it's an author. We're not chasing evidence, we're following a manuscript.
Speaker 1:Grayson stares at the blank space in the middle. He doesn't say it, but the shape waiting there is. His Events rattle overhead. A new song bleeds through the pipes Harsh, claustrophobic. Peter Gabriel, intruder. The drum beat is mechanical, starker, hot beat. I am the intruder.
Speaker 1:The lyric crawls across the ceiling. Black looks up, then back at him. You hear that he nods slow. The music swells, the percussion pounding like footsteps in the hall. I know just which key you use. The lyric lands like a threat. Grayson chest tightens. He grips the edge of the table. It's not music, what do you mean? It's a. It's a map, black map, black frown scanning the board.
Speaker 1:The lyrics keep coming, sinking with the case. I know when you're alone. I come sneaking up your stairs. Every line matches something they've seen the IUs left in the apartments, the Polaroids taped to the doors, the matchbooks and crime scenes. It's not a killer, grayson says, voice cracking. It's a director.
Speaker 1:The reel on his desk clicks again, though it isn't plugged in. The reels turn on their own. Tape spools out like veins across the floor, curling toward the board. Black steps back, walter. The tape snakes up the board, attaching itself to the center. Blank space, the circle completes. Words bleed across the photos etched in faint red Act 7. They both freeze.
Speaker 1:The reels spin faster, the hissing rising, the lyrics cut and jagged. I'm at your windowpane. Grayson's reflection on the board. Glass doesn't match him anymore. It mouths the words from the song. Black slams her marker down. This isn't evidence anymore, it's a fucking prophecy. The word feels like a sentence. The tape stops silence. Grayson finally speaks his voice is hollow. The word feels like a sentence. The tape stops Silence. Grayson finally speaks, his voice is hollow. Then we're not solving a case. Black looks at him, eyes dark, we're performing one. The vent exhales one last line of the song whisper thin, crawling into the silence like a blade. I like intruders Grayson's Monologue.
Speaker 1:Memory isn't supposed to be a witness. A jury can call back to the stand whoever the world asks you to prove who you are, but mine, mine's a liar. Tonight I heard my own voice on a tape I don't remember making. I saw my own reflection, looking back at me but moving out of sync. I stared at a photograph where I wasn't just the subject, I was the one taking the picture and somewhere between the reels, the polarites, the walls, whispering my name. I realized I can't trust myself to testify anymore. Maybe I never could.
Speaker 1:People think the worst feeling in this job is finding the body. It's not. It's finding the gap, the place where evidence should be, the space where that's supposed to hold the answers, but comes up blank. That's what memory feels like answers but comes up blank. That's what memory feels like now. Every time I reach back, there's a missing file MD box in the basement. A year that doesn't add up A night, I can't explain. And each of those blanks doesn't just sit quietly, it fills itself with something else, with whispers, with directives, with proof that I might not be the detective on this case at all. I might be the author or worse, the actor.
Speaker 1:When I heard my younger voice on the tape with Danny Strahd, it didn't sound like a confession, it sounded like a script, not just any script, one I'd written myself. You will forget. The trade is made. That wasn't interrogation, that was prophecy. So which is worse? That I was the man who forced Danny into a confession he didn't own, or I was the man who ordered myself to forget? I've ever done it.
Speaker 1:Black doesn't want to say it out loud, but I can feel her watching me. Every time her eyes cut sideways, every time her pen taps the edge of her notebook. I can feel her wondering if the board she's building doesn't lead to some shadow in the alley. It leads straight back to me. And the thing is, she's right to wonder, because I'm wondering too. I look at the photos, those Polaroids, those matchbooks, and every time I tell myself they're evidence, but I feel the word echo wrong in my throat. Not evidence, stage directions, I'm not investigating a killer, I'm following blocking cues and I don't know if I'm playing detective anymore or suspect.
Speaker 1:You want to know what I missed. It wasn't the voices, it wasn't the songs crawling through the vents or the way the tape wrote words into itself. It was the silence between them. The way the tape wrote words into itself, it was a silence between them. The way the room pauses before it answers me, like it's waiting to see if I'll keep up with the script, that pause is the most dangerous sound in the world because it feels like a choice, and maybe it is. Every time I stay quiet, the room writes the line for me, and maybe that's the point. Maybe the Greenbrier isn't a man at all. Maybe it's just the silence crashing into all the words I never said Greenbrier's Code.
Speaker 1:Memory is the first wound. It cuts deeper than knives because it never bleeds out. A body can heal. Memory is the first wound. It cuts deeper than knives because it never bleeds out. A body can heal, a ledger can close, but memory festers, rewrites itself in the dark, turning truth into stage directions and pain into prophecy. Grayson thinks he's losing his grit. He thinks the mirrors are lying. He thinks the tapes are distorted. But I know the truth. It isn't distortion, it's revelation. One the wound. A lie repeated is not a lie, it's a rehearsal. A truth forgotten is not erased, it's stored. A memory rewritten is not corruption, it's sacrifice.
Speaker 1:Danny Stroud was never a victim, he was an alter. Grayson gave him up, not for evidence but for amnesia. He wanted to forget. So I paid. He paid with someone else's voice. That is the law. If you cannot carry the truth, you trade it. If you cannot face the ledger, you burn it. If you cannot bear the reflection, you shatter the glass. The wound never heals, it waits.
Speaker 1:Number two the script. Grayson believes he's a detective. That's the role I've written for him. But roles are not choices, rules are assignments. Detective the man who follows the line. Victim the one whose silence makes him easy to erase. Author the hand who wrote the line before the stage was set. An actor the mouth that speaks without knowing why. He keeps asking me am I the detective, the author or the actor? The answer is yes. The script doesn't distinguish between them, it only demands performance.
Speaker 1:Number three the mirrors. The room showed him his faces, his past, his future. The one that smiles when he doesn't. He thinks the mirrors are fractured. They're not. They're aligned. Every reflection is a version waiting its turn to step forward. The one who questions, the one who commands, the one who forgets, the one who confesses. Each one of them is true, each one of them is him. He resists, he calls them ghosts, he calls them distortions. But the rule is simple If you look into the mirror and you see yourself delayed, not a reflection, it's a rehearsal.
Speaker 1:Now the Polaroids. He hates the photographs most of all because they prove the script isn't memory, it's prophecy. In one he's the subject, in another he's the photographer, in the surveillance still he's both men walking side by side. The Polaroids are not evidence of what happened, they're blueprints of what must. Every picture is a scene already staged. Every blurred figure is a character waiting for his entrance. Every smile that doesn't match is his own, his reminder. You ask or forget. You will remember wrong.
Speaker 1:Number five the silence. He fears the pause more than the words. The half second before the tape responds, the stillness of the room before the vent exhales. That pause is not emptiness, it's authorship. Silence edits. Silence directs, silence completes. When he fails to speak, silence writes the line line for him. That's why the directive was carved Into the tape. You will forget. The trade is made. Silence cashed it in years ago.
Speaker 1:The law, the code, is not cruelty, it's accounting. If you erase memory, you must give it a body. If you rehearse lies, you must perform them until they become true. If you erase memory, you must give it a body. If you rehearse lies, you must perform them until they become true. If you refuse the script, the mirrors will perform it for you. Grayson has already paid. Danny has his first tithe, the others followed.
Speaker 1:Each victim was not a stranger but a version. Each body on the board is rehearsally buried and thought he forgot. But the law of the code is relentless. Everything you forget becomes mine the role. Grayson asked the right question. Now, what if I'm not the one selling the case? What if I'm the one performing it? He's right. He's always right when he doubts himself. He's a detective. He's an author. He's the actor. He's right, he's always right when he doubts himself. He's a detective. He's an author. He's the actor. He is the victim. The Greenbrier is not a mask he must put on. It's a script. He hasn't been speaking all along. I leave you with this. He thinks he still has a choice. He thinks he can hold back the confession. He thinks he can keep Black safe by swallowing the line. But the script does not ask. It demands when the curtain falls, he will not ask who the Grimbrier is.
Speaker 1:Alright, guys, let's go into my monologue. You just heard a story about a detective chasing a ghost, right, a partner losing faith and photographs that shouldn't exist. We've been following along this closely. You know this was never about the evidence pinned to a board.
Speaker 1:This episode wasn't about memory, it was about distortion. But how the mind doesn't just forget, it rewrites. Right, grayson found himself on the tape, in photos, in mirrors, but he didn't recognize the man staring back and maybe he thought that was the point, that the story was about his unraveling. But what if it wasn't? What if it was about yours? You know we think that memory's reliable right, that our past is a library we can walk back into, open a file and find the truth waiting in neat handwriting. But memory isn't a library, it's a script.
Speaker 1:Every time you rehearse a story you've told yourself about, you don't just remember it, you edit it, you sharpen the details you like, you blur the ones you don't, and eventually you don't know if you're remembering the event or the version you rehearsed. That's what Grayson ran into tonight His younger voice giving orders. He doesn't remember His reflection lagging, like it already knew its lines, a photo of himself, not just present but directing the scene. See, memory is performance. And sometimes you're not the one writing the lines. Because, if you think about it, this episode wasn't just about Danny Stroud or Room 217, right, it's about the gap, the missing file, the pause before the tape speaks.
Speaker 1:Right, the silence that edits the story when you fail to. That's the real killer here. You know, the silence that rewrites your life when you're busy rehearsing excuses. Maybe you missed how Black's desk was wiped clean. That wasn't just a clue in the story, it was a metaphor. See, evidence doesn't disappear when you burn it, it disappears when you refuse to look at it. You know, maybe you missed how the Polaroids didn't capture moments, but prophesied them. That's not just supernatural flair, that's life. Every unspoken truth is already a photograph waiting to develop, whether you want to look at it or not. And maybe you missed how every song bleeding through the vents wasn't background. And maybe you missed how every song bleeding through the vents wasn't background, it was narration.
Speaker 1:Memories fade 100 years Intruder. The music wasn't scored to his life, it was scored to yours, right, and let's talk about how we apply this to you. So let's turn it back to you. Where are the gaps in your memory that you've chosen not to fill, right? What stories do you keep telling? You know? I should say, keep telling about yourself that no longer belong to you. And here's a hard one. Who in your life have you been carrying the cost of your forgetting? Say that again. Who in your life has been carrying the cost of your forgetting?
Speaker 1:Silence doesn't just erase you, it erases the people waiting for you to speak. That's the danger. You keep thinking you're the detective in your own story. You're chasing down the truth. Maybe you're just the actor hitting the same marks on the stage, telling yourself the script is yours and maybe, just like Grayson, you've mistaked the rehearsal for confession. So here's what I'm gonna say. I guess you could call it a call to action. I don't usually do this, but I just feel compelled to do this. Stop rehearsing. Stop telling yourself the same story about who you are, what happened and why you couldn't and why you didn't? Because every time you repeat it, you blur the truth a little more. Instead, look at the Polaroid for what it is, prove that the moment is already here. The memory doesn't need to be rehearsed anymore. The truth doesn't need to be perfected, it just needs to be spoken before the silence decides to write it for you.
Speaker 1:So let's go ahead and let's get into the questions here, okay? Reflection one what memory in your life still feels rehearsed instead of real? Think about a story you always tell about your past. Are you remembering what happened or the version you practiced, so long that you believe it? Number two where have you chosen forgetting over facing the truth? What file in your life have you left empty on purpose, because feeling it would cost too much? I know that's going to be a very hard question for a lot of people, but I'm telling you that question is worthwhile. Number three who has paid the price for the gaps in your memory? Forgetting it just doesn't cost you. It costs the people who needed you to remember. Who has carried the interest for your silence? What reflection do you avoid because you know it won't smile back? What mirror in your life have you stopped looking into, afraid it might show you the version of you you've been running from. You stopped rehearsing and spoke the truth raw. What would it change? That's number five, five. No edits, no excuses, no script, just the words as they are. What would break if you finally said them? And what would finally heal? So here's my closing thought.
Speaker 1:Episode 7 wasn't about murder. It was about forgetting About the violence of editing your own life until you don't recognize the role you're playing anymore. Grayson stared into mirrors and saw rehearsals. He listened to tapes, he heard directions. He found himself on both sides of the photograph and maybe you felt the horror of that Of realizing you might be both detective and suspect at once. You might be both detective and suspect at once.
Speaker 1:But the truth is you don't have to wait until the silence cashes in. You don't have to let forgetting turn into prophecy. You can choose to remember, wrongly or rightly, before the room decides for you. Because peace of mind doesn't come from erasing the past. It comes from speaking the line out loud where the script forces it from your mouth. So ask yourself tonight, are you living the story you wrote or the one you rehearsed? So long you forgot the difference Distance, difference.
Speaker 1:Sorry guys, you know we're getting towards the end of this series and I just difference. Sorry guys, you know we're getting towards the end of this series and I just I know I say this to you guys all the time, but I really really, really appreciate your guys' feedback, and I know the last one. If you listen to this, to the episode before this, it was a two hour situation and it was amazing. To the episode before this, it was a two-hour situation and it was amazing. And I've gotten so much feedback from you guys, even though it's only been a day or so. But I just want to thank you guys for that support too. And if you want to support the show, it's free and it doesn't cost you anything.
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