You wake up in a collapsed church. You don't remember how you got there. You have a notebook with 36 pages left, a fir cone that still has its scent, and a phone that someone keeps texting from a place called Bavaria.
The fir cone is not a metaphor. Neither is the phone. Neither is the church.
Unvanished is a 20-hour interactive narrative about a researcher who cannot stop translating pain into theorems, childhood into fairytales, and everyday life into something he can survive. Seven voices argue inside his head — each one right, none of them agreeing. You are not asked to pick one. You are asked to keep going.
Three narrative lines run in parallel: science (can I name this before I lose it?), literature (can I write this before I forget?), and the life happening in between (can I afford these meds, should I answer this call, does "bring an umbrella" mean something else?).
One core stat: Unvanished. It measures how much of the child is still here. Not a percentage of innocence. A degree of presence. Sometimes the fir cone loses its scent. Sometimes it doesn't.
Six endings. No "good" ending. No "cure" ending. An ending where everything is complete and you still choose to come back. An ending where you don't. An ending where nothing special happens and the game is just over. Which one you get depends on choices you won't know you're making.
White description. The game does not tell you the protagonist is sad. It tells you the iron door feels like nothing. It tells you the bench planks count each vertebra. It tells you the rain is inside your skull today. No narrator. No omniscience. Just objects speaking, and seven voices arguing in brackets, and you.
Bilingual: every line in Chinese and English. The English is not a replacement. It's a second channel. Read either. Read both.
Unvanished is not about getting better. It's about measuring what hasn't been lost yet. The difference matters.