Connection: (Connected to SCP-009)
The first time I realized something was wrong, I was halfway through my morning coffee.
It was bitter — the kind of bitter that only happens when you forget the sugar. I cursed under my breath, stirred again, and tried to shake off the feeling of déjà vu. Across the street, Mr. Halvorsen's dog barked at the mailman. Again. Exactly the same as yesterday. Or maybe an hour ago?
By noon, I'd heard the same weather report three times: "Highs of twenty-two, light cloud cover." Word for word. The same stumble on the same syllable from the same cheery announcer. I laughed at first, thinking it was some station error. But then my phone buzzed — a text from my sister that I knew I'd already read.
"Can you call later? Busy at work."
That was the moment the pit formed in my stomach.
I wasn't the only one noticing. By dusk, neighbors were on their porches, pale and frantic. A boy ran down the street screaming, "It's the same! It's the same day again!" He was right. No matter what we did, no matter how far we walked, we always ended back home by nightfall, waking up to the same cursed sunrise.
And then she appeared.
At first, she was just a shimmer in the air — like heat haze on asphalt. Then the shimmer condensed into a figure: tall, poised, draped in garments that looked stitched together from midnight and clockwork. Her hair flowed dark, long as a river, and every strand ticked faintly, like the turning of gears.
When she spoke, her voice wasn't just sound. It was the rhythm of seconds. The cadence of inevitability.
"You mortals struggle against repetition. But repetition is mercy. In stasis, you cannot err."
People fell silent. Some wept. I felt my pulse hammering, but in her presence, even my heartbeat seemed to sync with her pace.
One man broke ranks. He shouted at her, demanded to know who she was, why she was doing this. She tilted her head, smiled faintly — and suddenly he was gone. No flash. No scream. Just gone, like he'd never stood there at all. A blink later, I saw him again, walking out his front door, holding his coffee. Starting the day over.
The loop had reset.
I don't know how long it went on. Two days? Two years? Longer? We lost track. Memory blurred; people forgot what they'd said or done. Some surrendered, moving like dolls through the motions. Others lost their minds.
I tried to keep notes, scratching words onto the back of receipts, carving tally marks into the wall. But the moment she appeared, the marks were gone. Like she disapproved of being measured.
And yet… she wasn't cruel. Not exactly. Sometimes she would sit among us, hands folded neatly in her lap, and ask questions. Strange questions.
"Do you fear the end more than the wait?""If you had forever, would you still call it living?""What would you give, for one more second?"
None of us had answers she seemed to like.
It ended when the men in black uniforms arrived. I don't know how they broke through. They moved with precision, carrying strange devices that hummed like broken clocks. One of them called her by a name — not a real name, not one we could understand, but a title.
Keeper of the Final Hour.
She turned to them, and for the first time, she laughed. A low, melodic laugh that stretched into every corner of the world. Then she raised her hand, and time stopped again.
I was frozen, but my mind still worked. I watched as she walked past the soldiers, leaned close to one, and whispered something I couldn't hear. He flinched, dropped his weapon, but didn't move otherwise. She didn't erase him. She didn't need to.
Finally, she looked back at us — at me. Her eyes were deep, endless, like staring down the spiral of a clock.
"You are not yet ready to leave the river. But your Foundation… they at least acknowledge the flow. So I will let you keep your memories, for now. Cherish them. The hour approaches."
And then it was over.
The loop broke. The next day was new — different. The coffee was sweeter. The dog barked at a different car. The radio host got the weather wrong.
But I still hear ticking when I close my eyes.
Recovered from civilian testimony, █████, Canada.Filed under SCP-009 Incident Report Archive.