Ramses was walking down the main avenue when it happened.
For weeks—no, for eternity—the world had been still. Frozen air, frozen people, frozen sound. He had grown used to silence, to being the only moving figure in a lifeless painting. But now, without warning, the painting stirred.
It began with sound.
A single car horn blared, sharp and ugly, shattering the quiet. Ramses jumped, his chest tightening as his ears rang. He spun toward the source: a taxi frozen mid-turn, its driver's hand fixed to the horn. But in that instant, the driver's eyes blinked. His head twitched. The horn cut off.
Then, just as suddenly—silence.
The man froze again, locked in place. The world went still, as though nothing had happened.
Ramses stood rooted to the pavement, his pulse hammering in his throat. His hands shook. He whispered, "No… that was real. That was real."
The rest of the day, the freeze teased him.
A gust of wind pushed through the street, carrying dust and wrappers, only to stop mid-whirl. A child's laugh rang out in the park, echoing, bright and warm—before vanishing into silence. At one point, Ramses even saw the frozen pigeons explode into flight for a heartbeat, wings flapping, before freezing again mid-air, suspended like broken toys.
Time was resuming… but only in flashes.
The cracks were widening, but unevenly, chaotically.
And Ramses didn't know whether to celebrate or collapse.
At first, hope surged in him. His body buzzed with adrenaline each time life flickered through the silence. He wanted to shout, to run, to tell someone, anyone, that the world was coming back.
But the more it happened, the more the confusion set in.
If time could start, why did it keep stopping? Why tease him with fragments of life only to snatch them away? Each flicker reminded him of what he had lost—the sounds of voices, the rush of movement, the heartbeat of the world. And each time it froze again, the silence felt heavier, crueler, unbearable.
It was like drowning, being pulled above the water just long enough to taste air before being shoved back under.
That night, Ramses couldn't sit still. He paced his apartment, every nerve on fire. His mind raced in circles.
What if this is it? he thought. What if the world doesn't come back fully? What if it just keeps glitching like this forever?
The idea terrified him. He had built his new self for a future—for people, for connection, for life. But what if he was doomed to live in this half-reality, a broken timeline that gave him glimpses of everything he craved but never delivered?
He slammed his fist into the wall. "I can't live like this!" he shouted. His voice echoed through the stillness, bouncing off the walls, mocking him.
He sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. For the first time in a long time, he felt powerless again.
But then, something strange happened.
As he sat there, trembling, the hum of his refrigerator roared to life. The light flicked on, humming steadily. Ramses raised his head, blinking. He hadn't heard that sound in forever. The fridge had been silent, dead, like everything else.
The noise comforted him. It was mundane, ordinary—but it was real.
He staggered to his feet and opened the fridge door. Cold air rushed out, brushing his face. He laughed—an almost hysterical laugh—and grabbed a bottle of water. He twisted the cap and, for the first time since the freeze began, heard the crisp crack of plastic breaking.
It was the most beautiful sound in the world.
But just as quickly, the hum stopped. The fridge light died. The bottle in his hand froze mid-twist, droplets of condensation suspended in the air. Time was gone again.
The silence returned, crushing, suffocating.
The next day—or whatever counted as a day—Ramses tested the phenomenon. He wandered through the city, waiting for the flickers. Sometimes, they lasted only a second: a bus engine rumbling, a baby crying, a phone ringing. Other times, they stretched into minutes. He once saw a group of frozen students laugh and walk halfway across the street before halting mid-step again, like mannequins dropped into place.
Every flicker chipped away at him.
It was proof that the world was there, alive, waiting—but also proof that he wasn't a part of it yet. He was still in limbo, a ghost watching life pass by in fragments.
The confusion gnawed at him. Was this the universe testing him? Was he supposed to prove something before time returned for good? Or was he being toyed with, caught in some cruel cycle he didn't understand?
That evening, Ramses climbed to his rooftop again. The city glowed beneath him, frozen lights reflecting off motionless cars. He tilted his head back, staring at the stars.
For a long while, nothing happened. Just silence. Stillness.
But then, the stars pulsed—flickering in and out, as though the sky itself were breathing.
And then, for a brief moment, he heard it: the distant hum of the city alive. Cars moving, horns honking, voices blending into the music of civilization. The sound wrapped around him like a warm blanket.
He closed his eyes and let it fill him.
Then—silence again.
The tears came quickly. He tried to stop them, but he couldn't. He hadn't realized how much he had missed the world until he heard it, truly heard it, even for a fleeting moment.
Later, as he wrote in his journal, his hand shook. The words sprawled uneven across the page:
The world is moving, but not for me. I'm stuck between yesterday and tomorrow. Every flicker is a reminder of what I lost, of what I want. But I can't tell if it's a promise… or a punishment. Am I close to freedom, or trapped forever in this broken rhythm?
He paused, staring at the ink, and whispered, "Please. Either wake up… or let me sleep forever. Don't leave me here."
The silence gave no answer.
But somewhere deep in his chest, Ramses felt it: the end was coming.
Not yet. Not fully. But closer.
This wasn't the final freeze—it was the world testing its heartbeat, learning to breathe again.
And Ramses knew he had to be ready when it exhaled for good.