The television was on because no one wanted silence.
It filled the living room with a steady murmur — the kind of noise that suggested the world still had structure. Words, graphics, calm voices. Something predictable in a morning that didn't feel predictable anymore.
"…—magnitude 6.8 quake reported off the coast of Oregon, with aftershocks expected throughout the day. Officials emphasize there is currently no evidence linking the recent seismic events—"
The anchor paused just long enough to feel wrong.
Not a stumble.
Not a mistake.
Just a tiny gap where something unscripted threatened to exist.
"—to any broader pattern."
A world map replaced her image, glowing behind the news desk. Red markers pulsed across it like infections spreading under skin.
Too many.
Clusters along the Pacific. Dots across Asia. A scattering across Europe.
And several on the East Coast.
Not enough to cause panic.
Enough to be noticed.
Ethan stood near the hallway wall, half in shadow, arms loosely folded across his chest. He hadn't sat down. He hadn't spoken. He simply watched.
Standing gave him angles.
Front door. Back hallway. Windows. Stairwell. Blind corners.
Old instincts didn't disappear just because time had rewound.
His mother sat on the couch, a mug cradled between her hands. Steam no longer rose from it. She hadn't taken a sip in minutes. Her thumbs traced the rim in slow circles, an unconscious motion that betrayed tension she wasn't voicing.
His father leaned forward in the recliner, elbows on his knees, remote resting in his palm without pressing any buttons. His posture wasn't alarmed yet — just focused, like he was trying to decide whether concern was justified.
Noah lay on the rug, chin propped on his arms, legs kicking idly behind him. He looked casual at a glance.
But his eyes hadn't left the screen.
Footage cut to a highway torn open down the center.
Asphalt peeled upward like it had been softened, not shattered. Guardrails twisted inward. Several cars sat stranded at angles that didn't match gravity, one half-sunken into a fissure that looked too clean to be natural.
Dust drifted in the air.
No emergency vehicles yet.
Then the coastline.
The ocean had retreated far past the shoreline, exposing dark wet sand and stranded fish that glinted like scattered coins under the sun.
People stood on the beach filming it.
Some pointed.
Some laughed.
A few walked farther out, stepping around flopping fish as if exploring a tide pool.
Noah frowned.
"…Isn't the water supposed to come back?"
No one answered.
Because everyone in the room knew the answer.
They just didn't want to be the first to say it.
Seconds later, the tsunami footage played.
The wave didn't crest dramatically like in movies.
It rose.
A gray wall moving too steadily, too relentlessly. It swallowed boats, docks, and then streets in a single continuous advance.
Buildings didn't explode or collapse.
They simply disappeared beneath the water.
Mom covered her mouth softly.
"Oh God…"
The sound came out small, almost embarrassed — like she felt guilty for reacting.
The broadcast moved on before the destruction finished.
"…animal behavior experts are investigating reports of unusually aggressive wildlife—"
A deer paced down a suburban street, hooves clicking against pavement. Its muscles twitched beneath its hide as if misfiring. Its head snapped from side to side with unnerving precision.
Its eyes caught the sunlight and reflected it like glass.
Then it rammed a parked car.
The hood crumpled inward with a dull metallic thud.
Noah pushed himself upright.
"That must've hurt."
He sounded uncertain rather than amused.
Dad shook his head slowly.
"Animals don't usually do that."
The segments kept coming.
Volcano. Flood. Sinkhole. Blackout.
Each clip ended the same way:
Authorities are monitoring the situation.No cause for alarm.
The repetition felt less reassuring and more forced.
Mom's fingers tightened around her mug until her knuckles paled.
"This doesn't feel normal."
Dad didn't argue.
He changed the channel.
Another network showed the same footage.
Different anchor.
Same words.
Same calm tone.
Same eyes that didn't match it.
Ethan remained still in the doorway.
Watching.
Counting.
Comparing.
The sequence matched his memories — but not perfectly.
Events were clustering closer together.
Accelerating.
Dad muted the TV.
Silence settled heavily over the room, broken only by the refrigerator's low hum and the faint ticking of the wall clock.
"What do you think?" he asked the room.
Not afraid.
Just uncertain.
Mom hesitated.
"Maybe we should pick up some extra groceries. Just in case."
Her voice carried the careful tone of someone trying not to sound alarmist.
Noah nodded quickly.
"Yeah. Like for storms."
Storm logic was safe logic. Familiar. Understandable.
Ethan spoke for the first time.
"Stores might be crowded later."
All three looked at him.
His tone was mild. Casual. Almost indifferent.
Not urgent.
Not commanding.
Just practical.
Dad considered it.
"You think people will panic?"
"People usually wait," Ethan said. "Then everyone moves at once."
Dad nodded slowly.
That made sense.
It sounded like observation, not fear.
Mom set her mug down with careful precision.
"I could make a list."
Noah pushed himself up.
"I'll help carry stuff."
Dad stood, decision settling into place.
"Alright. We'll go before lunch. Beat the rush."
Ethan didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
Correct decision achieved.
Behind them, the muted television cycled through disaster footage — the anchor's silent mouth shaping reassurances no one believed anymore.
The lights flickered.
Not off.
Just dimmer for a heartbeat.
Then normal again.
Noah paused halfway up the stairs.
"…Did it get darker?"
Dad glanced at the ceiling fixture.
"Probably a power fluctuation."
Mom didn't look convinced.
Her gaze lingered on the light as if expecting it to fade again.
Ethan said nothing.
Power instability had begun.
Soon would come outages.
Then communication loss.
Then silence.
He stepped forward and turned the TV off completely.
The quiet felt heavier without it.
Outside, a siren began to rise in the distance.
Then another.
Not urgent yet.
Not chaotic.
Just… increasing.
Dad grabbed his keys from the entry table.
"Let's go."
Mom nodded and headed for the hallway.
Noah slipped on his shoes, fumbling slightly before tightening them too hard.
Ethan followed last, pausing briefly at the threshold.
His gaze swept the street automatically — rooftops, parked cars, tree lines, open sightlines between houses.
Not leading.
Guarding.
The sky overhead looked unsettled rather than clear. Patches of blue showed through thin gray layers drifting in slow, uneven directions. The air hung heavy with humidity, thick enough to feel in the lungs.
A kid rode a bike down the sidewalk, shirt already damp with sweat. Someone watered their lawn even though the ground didn't look dry, the spray turning to mist before hitting the grass.
Wind chimes rang softly from a porch nearby, the sound flattened by the dense air.
Somewhere far off, thunder rolled.
Or maybe something else.
No one stopped to figure out which.
Everything looked normal.
Everything felt wrong.
Nothing warned the people unloading groceries or checking mail that the world had already begun to shift beneath them.
Ethan stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
The latch clicked with a small, final sound.
Preparation phase had begun.
No one else knew it yet.
And if Ethan had anything to say about it—
They wouldn't realize how close they'd come to disaster until the danger was already behind them.