It is at the end of my days that I publish these notes, these volumes of facts and insights that have created in me a madman. These notes, which consumed me to the point of ostracizing my own wife and my only son. These notes, which I have devoted well over half my life to compiling. These notes, which tell the tale of the single most enigmatic and simultaneously straightforward woman to have ever walked the face of this earth. These notes, which chronicle the life of Wendy Alsouth.

I will not waste time introducing myself. My life is of no consequence in the grand scheme of this story. No, I am merely a humble narrator and observer, and not a particularly talented one, at that. I have no place in Wendy's history. I am neither a friend of hers, nor her kin, nor even an old flame. I do not doubt that she bears no recollection of the brief encounter she and I shared over two decades ago, but it is on that night that I shall begin this memoir, for it was on that night that my obsession with her began.