Ethan Hale's Tuesday began the way all forgettable days do: with coffee, cold light, and a phone screen too bright for 7:12 a.m.
He blinked through notifications. Weather: sunny. Calendar: empty. Group chat: silent. The digital haze of modern life. He thumbed downward, autopilot mode.
Then he saw it.
OBITUARY: Ethan Hale (Age 29) – A Kind Soul Gone Too Soon.
"Ethan passed away peacefully in his sleep on April 17th. He is survived by…"
He froze.
His own name. His age. His photo. That smile he always hated, the one his sister said looked forced.
For three long seconds, he couldn't move. Then his thumb twitched and the article scrolled away. Gone. He scrolled back up.
Nothing.
The article had vanished.
He checked the browser history. Nothing but Reddit and a half-read article about lucid dreaming. No obituary. No mention of Ethan Hale, dead or otherwise.
He laughed out loud, sharp and dry. Probably a glitch. Maybe some messed-up ad algorithm scraping personal data and spitting it back in the wrong form. Or a really bad joke.
Still, something in his chest pulled tight, like the moment before a car crash.
He rubbed his face, shuffled to the bathroom. Splashed cold water. Looked up.
And froze again.
His reflection wasn't moving.
Just for a moment. But long enough.
He raised his hand. A beat later, the mirror-Ethan copied him.
It wasn't off by much. Just enough to be impossible.
He backed away. Laughed again, nervously this time. "Okay. That's… not normal."
His phone buzzed. A message from Dylan, his best friend.
"You okay?"
Ethan stared at the screen. Had Dylan somehow seen it too? Had he heard?
"Fine. Weird dream, that's all."
No reply came.
He walked out into the hallway of his apartment building. Everything looked the same—dingy carpet, old exit signs, the faint smell of curry someone was always cooking.
Except… the elevator button was blinking. Up and down at the same time.
He pressed the stairs.
As he descended, he passed Mrs. Lambert from 3B. She smiled like always, but said:
"Morning, Evan."
He stopped halfway down the steps. "Sorry—Ethan."
She gave him a puzzled look. "That's what I said."
No, it wasn't.
At the ground floor, the newspaper box was open. Today's headline:
LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD IN DREAMLIKE SCENE.
No photo. No name.
He didn't pick it up.
Outside, the street was normal. People. Cars. Wind. But it all felt a fraction too still, like a paused video waiting to resume.
At the coffee shop, the barista looked up and said, "Hey, welcome back! The usual, Elijah?"
He blinked. "Ethan."
The barista smiled, unfazed. "Right. Ethan. Sorry, dude."
He paid and took his drink to the window seat, trying to ground himself. Count five things you can see. Four you can touch. Three you can hear.
It didn't help.
Because across the street—
He saw himself.
Same coat. Same face. Same confusion in the eyes.
The other Ethan was staring directly at him. And then…
He turned.
And walked away.
⸻
Ethan dropped his cup. Coffee spilled like a dark shadow across the table.
He ran outside, weaving through traffic and pedestrians.
But the other him was gone.
Not just out of sight—vanished.
Ethan stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, panting, heart thudding.
A sharp wind cut through the air.
And when he got home, the lights flickered. His front door was already unlocked.
Inside, everything looked exactly the same.
Until he saw the slip of paper on the floor.
Thin. Typed.
You're in my dream. Wake up.