-this story is English but some small parts are in Spanish-
Chapter 1
Slow, detailed pacing
Morning arrived in Madrid like a soft breath.
The sky was a pale blue watercolor, the kind that promised a warm day but still held onto the coolness of dawn. John stepped out of his apartment building, the metal door clicking shut behind him, and let the familiar sounds of the street settle around him — mopeds humming in the distance, shopkeepers pulling up shutters, the murmur of early voices drifting through open windows.
He carried a small paper bag from the bakery where he worked — leftover pastries the owner always let him take home. The smell of warm bread followed him as he walked, comforting and grounding.
He passed the old bookstore on the corner. The owner, a thin man with round glasses, was sweeping dust from the doorway.
"Buenos días, John," the man called.
John lifted a hand in greeting. "Buenos días."
He liked this part of the morning — when the city felt like it belonged only to the early risers, the workers, the people who appreciated quiet. The streets hadn't yet filled with tourists or traffic. It was peaceful.
He checked his phone out of habit. No urgent messages. A reminder about a rent payment he already knew he needed to make. His life wasn't dramatic — just simple. Routine. Predictable in all the safe ways… and maybe in the boring ones too.
But he didn't mind. He liked the bakery. He liked the rhythm of shaping dough with flour on his hands. He liked handing a fresh pastry to someone and seeing their face brighten.
He liked being alive.
He walked past a pair of schoolkids arguing over a trading card, past an elderly couple waiting at a bus stop, past a small orange cat stretching in a doorway. Every detail, every little piece of the city felt vivid — like the world was quietly reminding him he was part of it.
When he reached the crosswalk, he paused as the pedestrian light blinked red. Cars rolled by, tires hissing softly on asphalt still damp from early rain. He took a bite of a croissant, crumbs brushing his fingers.
He thought about calling his mother later that night. She lived far away in another city, but she always worried he didn't sleep enough. He thought about saving more money, maybe traveling next year. He thought about a girl who sometimes came into the bakery — short brown hair, a nose piercing, a smile that made him forget the price of sugar.
He wondered if he'd talk to her today.
The light changed to green.
John stepped forward.
He didn't hear the truck at first — just the distant hum of engines blending together. Then he felt a vibration rush through the ground, a sudden shift in the rhythm of the street.
A shout — sharp and panicked — cut through the air.
"¡Cuidado!"
He turned his head.
A truck barreled around the corner too fast, skidding on the slick pavement. The driver fought the wheel, eyes wide with terror. Tires screamed. Metal groaned.
Time didn't freeze — it stretched. Pulled thin.
John saw the reflection of the sky in the windshield.
He saw a woman at the bus stop cover her mouth in horror.
He saw the paper bag slip from his fingers, pastries scattering like feathers.
He didn't have time to move.
The impact was quick.
A white flash.
Pain blooming like fire through his chest.
Air punched from his lungs.
He felt weightless — for just a second — then nothing at all.
The city continued moving around him, but he was already drifting away, slipping into a silence deeper than sleep.
No sirens.
No shouting.
Just a gentle, expanding darkness.
And within it… a whisper he didn't recognize:
"This is not where your story ends."