This story was told by someone like you

This story was told to me by someone like you — someone reading this from another country, maybe thinking
about their first night at Amnesia, or remembering one they never fully understood.

They didn’t tell me their name, but there was no need.

They said they couldn’t remember the exact time they arrived. Only the road, the dust rising as the car stopped,
the conversation slowly fading, as if everyone knew there was nothing left to say. When they stepped out, they
felt something strange in their body — not nerves, more a sense of expectation, that feeling of knowing you’re
about to lose control of what comes next.

They walked in without thinking too much. No one explained anything, no one asked them to be any particular
way, and somehow that was calming.

At first, they watched. Everyone does at first. They tried to understand where they were, what was happening,
how they were supposed to be in that place. It didn’t last long. The music didn’t enter through the ears, it entered
through the chest, and before they realised it, they were already dancing. Not because they chose to, but because
the body was ahead of the mind.

They remember hands — a fan passing from someone they didn’t know to someone they never saw again, a
sweaty back against theirs, a brief look that was enough. They don’t know when they lost the people they came
with, and they don’t remember deciding to. At Amnesia, getting lost doesn’t feel like a mistake: there is always
someone nearby, always a rhythm holding you.

At some point, they realised something important: no one was performing, no one was playing a role for anyone
else. Everyone was there for the same reason, even if each person lived it differently.

They moved from the Main Room to the Terrace almost without noticing, as if the body knew before the mind
that it needed different air, a different pulse, another kind of light. The night didn’t break apart, it transformed.
They closed their eyes more than once, not to focus but to stop trying, and for a while — they couldn’t say how
long — time stopped making much sense.

The night moved forward without warning. At times it felt like it had just begun; at others, like it had been there
forever. They remember being tired, remember thinking “that’s enough”, and remember dancing anyway.
They stepped outside and it was almost daylight. That, they remember clearly.

With the light already there, they put their hand in their pocket and found something — a sticker, a small piece of
merchandise, an object with no real value that somehow became an improvised talisman. They didn’t know when
they picked it up or why they were carrying it, but it made them smile, thinking it was quiet proof that they had
been inside.

When everything ended, they couldn’t explain exactly what had happened. They didn’t have a clear story to tell,
and some details were blurred. What they did know was this: they had entered a place that was already alive
before them, danced where others had danced before, and for a few hours had been part of something that didn’t
start with them and didn’t end when they left.

They didn’t leave feeling like they had lived something “unique”, but knowing they had taken part in something
shared. They understood that Amnesia isn’t an experience you can own — it’s something that passes through
you, leaves a mark, and continues on its way, with or without you.

That’s why, when they think about coming back, they don’t think about repeating a night.
They think about entering again.

If you’re reading this before your first time, don’t try to understand everything. You don’t need to. Some places
aren’t meant to be explained. They’re meant to continue.