(the content below is solely for the purpose of the storyline.)
Hello to the one who receives this book.
No matter who you are or where you may be, if you come into possession of it, do not hand it over to the local authorities — keep it to yourself.
The contents that follow may be shocking and provocative; certain groups of people will undoubtedly oppose it. That's why I urge you to trust me — if you don't want to bring disaster upon yourself.
The reason I say this is because what I'm doing is quite dangerous, and I don't know how much longer I'll remain safe. So, the moment I finished this manuscript, I had to write this message for you.
Bring it to light only when that moment truly arrives. When it comes, you will know — you'll understand it instinctively. Until then, keep it absolutely secret.
If you're wondering why this was sent to your home by mail, the answer is simple: We have a team sophisticated enough to bypass the authorities. We chose you purely by chance, the only reason being that you belong to the rare few whose vibrational frequency is high enough for us to trust.
So please, maintain that noble quality. It is the only lifeline each person needs in these turbulent times ahead.
Wishing you good luck!
* * *
1. My son's death
If you're reading this, I may no longer be alive. But even that, I still do not wish to reveal my identity. All of us are actors in a play that has already been orchestrated. You and I—we're just roles in a grand production. And I feel an obligation to tell you what happened to my life… and to the world.
First of all, I am beginning this journal to tell the truth. And from that point forward, it will no longer be a journal—at least, not mine. It will become the story of a man, from a different era, on a different continent, astronomical years ago. I hope you believe what I am about to write. This is not exaggeration, and it is not science fiction.
This information is real—it is truth, and it is reality. And now is the time to finally say it.
I was a refugee in the United States after the Vietnam War, when the Northern government claimed victory and seized control of Saigon.
At that time, I was too young to understand what was happening. I had no parents, no siblings, no relatives. Technically, some of them were still in the North, but they were not my blood relatives. So, when the time came, I boarded a boat without hesitation.
It was a time of deep unrest. A wave of migration and refugees erupted from the South, continuing well into the 1980s. Not all who left feared the Northern government or feared retribution or injustice. Most simply saw no future here, felt betrayed, or recognized an opportunity to leave.
My early years in America were difficult.
Thankfully, as a refugee, I received full support from the U.S. government for my education and basic needs. I rose, slowly but steadily, into the middle class. I won't delve too much into my private life—but I attended the University of Texas Medical School and eventually became a neurosurgeon. I soon started a family and had a son.
The true story begins when my son reached enlistment age.
Unlike most boys his age, he was passionate—driven to become a soldier. He had the qualities, the discipline, and before long, he became a U.S. Marine. Coincidentally, the war in Afghanistan was still raging, and my son was deployed.
My wife was deeply distressed. But for me—as someone who owed everything to America—I believed that fighting for one's country was an honor. I said nothing. Perhaps that silence gave him more conviction.
Then came the blow: a casualty report.
My son had died on the frontlines of Afghanistan. For all I had lived through—wars, displacement, loss—I had never experienced a pain so personal, so raw. It nearly destroyed us.
My wife and I decided to have another child. But she was already over forty. It was dangerous, and she refused to consider adoption. So we set the dream aside.
My work suffered. I couldn't focus. During a brain surgery, my lapse resulted in an intracranial hemorrhage. The patient didn't survive. As lead surgeon, I bore the full weight of responsibility. My reputation collapsed. The chairmanship I had once aspired to—gone.
And then, at my lowest point, a letter arrived.
Inside was a photograph—my son, smiling, by a pool in some luxurious resort. Alongside them, a single note:
"He is still alive. If you wish to know the truth, come to this address…"
★ ★ ★
The day came faster than I expected. That very night, a heavy storm rolled in. The kind that turns the sky green and sends the news anchors into warning mode: Stay inside. Don't go out. That kind of storm.
I hesitated. Honestly, I didn't really buy into the photo. Could've been edited, could've been an old shot from one of my son's past trips. I was tired. Too tired to go chasing ghosts.
And hell, he was dead. We had the body. We held the funeral. We cried. We moved on—or tried to.
But still... the thought stuck. What if—just what if—there was something to it? What if someone brought him back? Some... thing?
I hate that word. "Thing." It leaves too much room for answers you don't want.
And the body—what if it wasn't real? They can make synthetic stuff look almost perfect now. I didn't double-check. Truth is, I didn't want to. But deep down, I was too scared to check.
If this was real, it wasn't simple. This was some kind of setup. A scheme. Maybe political. Maybe something else. But why me? I'm just a tired, washed-up doctor with a mortgage and a drawer full of unpaid bills. It made no sense.
Then—clack. The magnets on my office board and wall fell. All of them. The little round ones, the flat ones shaped like cats or clip-art thumbs-ups. Even the big red one that never moved. They dropped.
I picked two up. They didn't stick to each other anymore.
"What the hell…" I whispered.
No magnetism. Nothing.
Then the ones on the floor started to twitch. Just a little. Like bugs waking up.
And then they moved. Slow. Smooth. Like they knew where to go.
They slid toward each other and spelled out a word.
"GO."