The alarm didn't ring.
Arin woke up before it, his eyes snapping open to silence. The city outside was still dark — dawn delayed, as if time itself hesitated to begin again.
He sat there for a long time, not breathing, waiting for the familiar chime that never came. When he finally looked at the phone, it read 6:56. The seconds didn't move.
Then — suddenly — 6:57.
The alarm exploded into sound. And everything fell back into place.
He walked the same road again that morning, but the world felt slightly off. The clouds were a shade dimmer, like the sun had forgotten its exact hue. The people's faces blurred when he tried to focus — as though painted over in haste.
He stopped near the crosswalk, his heart pulsing too fast. She was there again.
Elara. The red scarf. The faint hum of her music leaking from her headphones.
He watched her from across the street, unsure if she was real or another fragment of yesterday. The light changed — red to green — but she didn't move. Neither did he.
Cars passed between them like seconds dividing two versions of time.
When the road cleared, she looked up — straight at him. This time, he knew it wasn't an illusion.
Her lips moved slightly, though he couldn't hear through the noise. One word, maybe two. He crossed the street without realizing it, the signal already red again. A horn blared, tires screeched — he didn't care.
When he reached the other side, she was gone.
Only the faint smell of her perfume remained, and a single red thread from her scarf caught on the signpost.
He stood there until the city drowned him out.
That night, he didn't try to sleep. He spread papers across his desk — dates, times, clocks, dreams — every detail he remembered from the last few days. The pattern was almost perfect. Too perfect.
He realized something: every day since the 14th of March was the same, only rearranged. Like someone kept shuffling the same deck of hours, forcing him to draw the same hand over and over.
In the quiet, he whispered her name. "Elara."
The name echoed differently this time — hollow, as if the room swallowed it whole. And then, faintly, under the hum of the ceiling fan, he heard a girl's voice.
"You're still trying to fix it, aren't you?"
He froze.
He looked around. The room was empty. But the air wasn't.
There was warmth behind him — the feeling of someone standing close. The sound of her music, faint and distant, like from another memory bleeding into this one.
When he turned, no one was there.
Only the red scarf lying on his desk.
Arin touched it with shaking hands. It was real. The fabric soft, slightly warm.
He wanted to scream. Or cry. Or laugh. But all he did was sit there, staring, as the clock on his wall ticked backward —6:57 → 6:56 → 6:55 —
—and then froze.
He whispered, "Maybe this is what dying feels like. Remembering forever."
And outside, the city lights flickered —like the world was breathing out his dream.