Level 647
rating: +15+x

SURVIVAL DIFFICULTY:

Class 1

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Level 647 is the 648th Level of the Backrooms.

Description:

The following passage was made by the sole recorded wanderer to have experienced the level after the newly-founded portion of M.E.G. Regiment Life Line, Team "Lavender", carried out a quick cognitive interview. Best regards from the team.

— Joey Levisay
anemoia%20lvl

What time was it? What is it about this place that ties me into it? Why is it important to me?

It's… home? It's not home but at the same time it is. I belong here, I remember this place but… I don't. I don't remember it at all but I know this place.

Joey says that's called… anemoia? Or— it's something similar to that, at least that's what they tell me.

The room I wake up in— it's just… a plain bedroom. Lots of posters, lots of toys. A closet with clothes in it. I get up, put on some of the clothes in the closet. My bag is at the foot of the bed, freshly organized. There's a… uh, a suitcase. I grab it, just… on instinct, I guess. I roll it behind me and walk out of the room.

There's a staircase and— oh, Dad. Wait… no, no, I don't have a dad. It was always just me and Mom growing up. But— he seems familiar too. Just like this whole place. He says, "Your friend's downstairs. He's been waiting a while, go talk to them," and I do. I lug my suitcase down the stairs and I see it sitting on the couch. I can't quite make out his face, but I know it's them.

He's… sad.

Oh, that's right. I'm leaving.

So, I go up to them and I give it a hug.

"I'll miss you," they say, and I'll miss him too. "Middle school was fun, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," I say. But— I'm in my twenties? Middle school?

Whatever. It needs comfort. I tell him we'll keep in touch somehow, and they say he has something for me. It pulls something out of a backpack, holding it out to me. An old flip phone, but I can't make out the brand. He asks if we can take a picture, before I leave. I say sure. I want to take some pictures of the house, too. Maybe see if I'll be able to remember better later.

My friend is happier. Not much, but he's glad we'll be able to take a picture. I tell it to smile, and I can't see if they actually do. Still can't quite make out his face. We walk outside together, and… I'm sad too. Friend is helpful— it tells me they're proud and that he thinks I'm doing good. I feel better.

It walks with me, up until the sidewalk. I take a few more pictures, and he sits down on the sidewalk. I breathe in and start to walk. Out into the street, ready for whatever comes next. I turn around, one last time. They're still sitting there, and he notices me looking back, so it waves.

I smile and keep going.

The ground rumbles a bit, as if something big is coming by. The exhaust of a truck becomes apparent, almost suffocating, really— I can't see friend through the smoke. I can't see anything through it. The truck hits me, after around a minute of me stumbling through the smog. It doesn't hurt, but it's enough to force me out of the level, I guess.

It— it isn't my real childhood but… it really felt like it. It felt so very much like my own while being nothing like it. I miss it.


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