I awoke at the bottom of a cold, stone staircase, my head throbbing and my memory a haze.

As I rubbed my eyes, trying to make sense of my surroundings, I noticed the intricate stonework of the walls and the slight musty smell of dampness and age. Where am I? How did I get here?

With effort, I pushed myself up and began to ascend the staircase.

Each step felt like an eternity, the echo of my boots against the stone the only sound in the eerie silence. As I climbed, a sense of both dread and curiosity filled me. I had no recollection of this place, yet it felt oddly familiar, like a fragment of a forgotten dream.

When I reached the top, the staircase abruptly ended.

Before me was a small peephole, the only source of light in this dim and desolate place.

I peered through it, squinting to make out what lay beyond. At first, I saw nothing but blurry shapes, but as my eyes adjusted, I began to make out the tops of trees, the distant outlines of buildings, and the unmistakable expanse of Central Park. It dawned on me then—I was inside Belvedere Castle.

A chill ran down my spine.

Why was I here? How had I come to be locked inside this castle, alone and without memory?

Panic gripped me, and I screamed, calling out for help. But the castle’s stone walls absorbed my cries, and no answer came. The park below was serene, devoid of people as if time itself had paused.

I turned back, descending the staircase with a newfound urgency.

I needed answers.

At the base, I noticed a narrow corridor I had overlooked before. I followed it, my footsteps echoing in the silence. The corridor led to a small chamber, where I found stacks of food—canned goods and dried meat—and a puddle of water that seemed to seep from a crack in the wall, forming a small spring. It was sustenance, though meager and puzzling in its presence.

Once dapper and stylish, my clothes were now dirty and dusty, evidence of some ordeal I could not recall. My memory was fuzzy, fragments of thoughts and images that refused to coalesce into a coherent narrative.

In the corner of the chamber, I discovered a small wooden desk with a sheet of paper, a bottle of ink, and a quill.

It seemed I was not the first to be here, or perhaps someone had anticipated my arrival. I sat down, the weight of my confusion and fear pressing on me, and began to write.

Whoever may find this, know that I am trapped within Belvedere Castle, with no memory of how I came to be here. The park is empty, and I am alone. Tomorrow, I will explore further, seeking answers to the questions that plague my mind. Why am I here? What is this place? And most importantly, how can I escape?

My name is Galan Thornfield, the only piece of my identity that remains clear.

Until then, this journal shall be my only companion, a record of my thoughts and discoveries.

Signed,
Galan Thornfield