January 24, 2030
Timothy woke before his alarm, not because of habit but because his mind had already decided the night was finished. The apartment was dim, the city outside not yet loud but never fully still. Traffic murmured at a distance. Somewhere below, a delivery truck idled too long.
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling until the urge to reach for his phone grew sharp enough to be irritating. When he finally picked it up, he didn't open messages. He opened a note instead.
The words from the night before came back intact. Uptime. Serviceability. Local manufacturing. Integration without lock-in.
They felt too clean. Clean ideas were easy. Dirty systems were where resistance lived.
He got up, showered, dressed, and made coffee quickly. The routine stayed intact even as his attention drifted. He slowed himself down deliberately, not because it helped, but because he noticed he was rushing without reason. The coffee tasted the same either way.
