There was a gun. Two pieces of glass that formed a symbol I didn’t recognize when pushed together, and a letter. I opened it. It was a suicide note. It hurts when I don’t remember. I want the pain to stop. Please, don’t do it again. Don’t save me. I want to leave this place, it read.

I tried to swallow. My throat was still dry. The weapon felt heavy in my hands. I considered leaving it behind, but if I was the one responsible, the consequences would surely be dire.

No matter how much I turned the note around and looked at it from different angles, it wasn’t signed. I didn’t know what to think. Had I written it? Had I failed at leaving what the handwriting referred to as This Place? Or was it not mine after all?

The two pieces of glass were a mystery to me as well. The symbol could have very well been a coincidence as it could have been meaningful.

My head buzzed with the questions I’d sought—now all I needed were the answers, the key to unlock what had somehow been pushed out of my mind.

I decided to—

A) I decided to get off this damned rooftop and explore the city; staying could be dangerous.

B) I decided to stick around; maybe I could find something else by exploring the places I hadn't checked yet.

C) I decided to go down into the building and knock on the first door I could find; I needed help, not useless clues.