Deep within Midnight Griddle, a solitary beacon in the vast, desolate nothingness, Ezra moved like a ghostly shadow. At eighteen, his slender frame seemed even more fragile under the pale glow of flickering fluorescent lights. His black hair, an unruly tangle, fell over his eyes—eyes marked by deep, dark circles that whispered of sleepless nights. His gaze—exhausted, deeply melancholic—belonged to someone who had seen too much… or perhaps, to someone about to see far more.
The smell. That was the true companion at Midnight Griddle at 4:17 a.m. An intoxicating mix of freshly fried potatoes, the robust bite of freshly brewed coffee, and the comforting sweetness of pancakes—a symphony of scent that clung to clothes and soul alike. The diner stood empty, rows of silent tables and stacks of chairs, faint in the gloom. Outside, the world was a canvas of towering trees standing like silent sentinels, and a ribbon of asphalt that disappeared into the horizon—a road leading into the unknown.
Engulfed in the monotony of his existence, Ezra washed a plate with mechanical movements, the hot water steaming around him like a shroud. The metallic clink of dishes was the only soundtrack of the moment. When he finished, he let out a breath that felt heavier than the world, dried his hands on a threadbare towel, and made his way toward the only other soul in sight: Lisa.
Lisa, boundless energy even at this hour, cleaned a table with a vigor Ezra secretly admired. Her light-brown hair was tied in a messy ponytail, swinging with each motion. A faint, barely-there smile curved Ezra's lips as he leaned against the edge of the table she polished. There was something in Lisa—a spark, a vitality—that contrasted sharply with his own weariness.
"Hey, Lisa," Ezra began, his voice a playful whisper tinged with barely disguised flirtation, floating in the air like the aroma of coffee. "The universe is sending us a sign. Why don't we break out of this fried-prison and get breakfast somewhere… that doesn't smell like grease?"
Lisa paused, her eyes—bright and alive, like stars above—locking onto his. A short, melodic laugh escaped her lips, a sound like music to Ezra's ears. "Oh, so now you're a seer, Ezra? Prophet of liberated breakfasts? Sorry, but my loyalty's to pancakes, and I've got zero vestiges of interest in a cosmic escape with you." Her tone was equal parts teasing and affectionate, a gentle challenge that Ezra accepted with a playful roll of his eyes.
"You'll regret turning down the prophet one day," Ezra teased, straightening and moving toward the counter. It was the same ritual, day after late night—a silent ballet between them.
The instant his fingers brushed the cool, polished surface of the counter, a screech of tires shattered the night's stillness. The unmistakable sound of a car slamming to a halt outside—it pierced the symphony of silence. Lisa, one eyebrow raised in mock surprise, leaned closer, her voice a curious whisper.
"Incredible," she said, eyes trained on the front door. "How is it that every time you touch this counter, a car stops… and people just walk in?"
Ezra offered a tired smile that didn't reach his eyes but still lit his face. "Let's just say I've got my 'vestiges,'" he said, using the word with just enough irony that Lisa, with her keen insight, caught the nuance.
Her brows furrowed, the humor drained from her expression, replaced by something serious. "Don't joke about that, Ezra. Those things… they're not for joking." There was a trace of warning in her voice, a hint of something Ezra hadn't quite grasped.
Before he could reply, the door creaked open—and two men, around thirty, stepped in. They carried the cold air of the night with them, the scent of the highway and dew. Their tired faces sought warmth—and the promise of food.
"A couple of waffles and two coffees, please," one said, his voice rough with exhaustion.
With robotic precision, Ezra flipped open his small notebook. "Grab any seat you like. I'll be right over."
The men nodded and headed to a booth in the corner. Ezra moved toward the kitchen, while Lisa resumed her cleaning—her movements echoing through the silent diner.
As he heated the waffle irons and the sweet scent of vanilla filled the air, a sudden jolt attacked him. Not just any pain—a sharp dagger pressed into his temple, stealing his breath. His fingers curled, pressing to his head in the universal gesture for migraine relief. But the pain rose instead of fading—a rising crescendo that threatened to shatter his skull.
Lisa noticed. "Are you okay, Ezra?" she asked, her concern quiet but clear.
He met her gaze, eyes glassy with pain, and managed a strained nod—barely a smile.
In that moment, reality unraveled.
Midnight Griddle dissolved into darkness, swallowed by an oppressive void. No walls, no tables, no lingering coffee aroma. Only darkness—utter, palpable—a chasm that swallowed sound and light. Ezra's brow creased, confusion and terror etched across his face. His visions, those fleeting trips into shadowed realms, had always come without agony—small windows into a fractured future. But this… this was pain incarnate, tearing through him like a living thing.
He shambled forward into the darkness, feet dragging across an unseen floor. Then he saw him: a tiny silhouette, suspended in the void. A boy. Four years old. It was his brother—Silas.
The terror that gripped Ezra was cold and paralyzing. Silas wasn't playing. He was kneeling, convulsing in agony—arms drawn tight across his stomach as if something living inside was tearing him apart. Guttural screams echoed in the emptiness, each one a blow to Ezra's heart. Something—or someone—was hurting him deeply.
"SILAS!" Ezra screamed, pain and fear propelling him forward. He knew better—this was a projection, an illusion of what was to come. Yet he lunged, hands trembling, desperate to stop the screams. His hands passed through Silas like mist. He sank to his knees, clutching his own head as if physical pain could end this nightmare. "Stop!" he begged—but the vision would not relent.
He growled in frustrated pain and lowered his hands. The screaming intensified. It was no external wound—nothing visible. It was as if some malevolent force was devouring Silas from within—a horror beyond form. Ezra closed his eyes, summoned every shred of will, and reached out again.
This time… his hands found flesh. His fingertips pressed into Silas's small shoulders. The screams stopped. The piercing headache dissolved like smoke. Just the two of them—Ezra and Silas—suspended in the void, time still.
Silas stared at him for a long moment. Ezra didn't speak—only watched, baffled by what he could now do. "Silas?" he whispered.
Before Silas could respond, everything shifted.
Darkness exploded into kaleidoscopic light. A tunnel of swirling color and motion dragged Ezra downward. There was no ceiling, no floor—only free-fall through memories yet to come: unmade choices, unseen lives, faces still unknown. Silas fleeing, fire devouring everything, a shadowy figure, impossible decisions, a city collapsing into ruin… and a clock's hands frozen in mid-tick, forever paused.
He plunged deeper and deeper into that torrent of visions—endless flashes of color, light, memory that battered him senseless. His eyes turned blank-white, missing pupils—watching, not seeing, drowning in a storm of futures. Then—a jarring impact. A sudden crash against an unseen floor.
Ezra awoke.
He spit out a breath, found himself back in Midnight Griddle—but not at the same moment as before. The two men were only now pushing open the front door, the familiar chime cutting through the haze. Lisa hovered, concern in her eyes, hand waving in front of his face.
"Hey—Ezra?" she said, voice tethering him back.
He looked at her—blank, expressionless. Then… he laughed. Not in joy—but in bitter recognition. His laughter echoed empty. Not because this moment was funny, but because now he knew… so much.
And among all the future fragments, there was one clear, unbreakable truth: Lisa—the woman laughing before him, asking if he was okay, the ONLY person he could stand in this vast darkness… was going to die. In a few days.