It hits him like a bucket of ice water; he draws sharply inward, flinching. He doesn't see any goddamned—

Though the little gold traceries in the depths of his mind flicker, over the layers and layers he won't remember, and around the open wound that lies between him and his Shadow, not enough of them break. He swallows, trying to think, sounding strained.

"I don't see any notebooks here, Ren. Just the two on the table. You're welcome to look at them, but I'm afraid there's not much to see. I keep—"

I keep losing them. And then, at the moment he would have understood, he shuts down.