Elizabeth Harper adjusted the mannequin in her studio, tugging at the hem of the silk dress she had been working on for hours. London's late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows, painting streaks of gold across the polished wooden floors. She glanced at the clock on the wall and muttered her usual wish under her breath.
"11:11… please, just one thing to change everything."
It had become a ritual, a quiet superstition she clung to in the middle of her chaotic life. Some people called her obsessed; she called it hope.
The scissors she had been holding slipped from her fingers. She bent to pick them up—but something felt… off. The studio was too silent.
She froze mid-motion. The ticking of the wall clock had stopped. The faint hum of the heater, the distant rumble of a passing bus outside, even the soft drip of rain against the window—all of it had vanished.
Elizabeth straightened, heart thudding. Her pulse echoed in her ears. Had the power just gone out?
"Hello?" she called softly. No reply. Not even the faintest echo.
Then she noticed movement. Or, rather, the absence of movement. A pigeon paused mid-flap outside the window, suspended in the air. A drop of rain hovered like a tiny crystal above the pavement. Her eyes widened.
And then… she saw him.
A man, standing in the middle of the studio, perfectly still, almost like a living statue. He looked ordinary at first—dark brown hair, blue eyes, tall—but there was something otherworldly about the way he gazed at her. Like he had been waiting.
Elizabeth's mouth went dry. "W-who… who are you?"
The man tilted his head slightly, lips curving into a small, almost sad smile. "My name is Dave," he said, voice calm but resonant. "And you… are the only one who can see me right now."
Her brain tried to process. "Only me? What do you mean? Why are… why is everything frozen?"
Dave took a step forward. In a normal world, she would have flinched at the sudden movement—but in this suspended moment, it felt unreal. The scissors were still frozen mid-air on the floor. A strand of her chestnut hair hovered inches from her shoulder. He moved like someone untouchable, almost untethered to the rules of reality.
"I'm… stuck," he said, his eyes scanning the studio as if he could see things she couldn't. "Trapped between worlds. And you… you're the only one who can help me, Elizabeth."
Her heart skipped. How did he know her name?
"Look, I don't understand any of this," she whispered. Her fingers clenched her apron. "Maybe I'm… dreaming?"
"No dreams feel like this," he replied, almost gently. "Not even close. This is real. Every day at exactly 11:11, time stops. Everything around you freezes. And for one minute… we are the only ones who exist."
Elizabeth took a step back, bumping into the mannequin. Her mind raced. One minute? Every day? What kind of… magic? Curse? Science experiment?
"And… why me?" she asked. "Why am I the only one who can see you?"
Dave's blue eyes softened, but they also carried a weight she didn't fully understand. "I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out. But somehow… you're different. You can move here, even when the rest of the world cannot."
Her chest tightened. "Move… like what?"
He extended a hand, calm and steady. "Come closer. See for yourself."
Elizabeth hesitated. Her rational mind screamed, run, call the police, get out. But curiosity—something deep and reckless in her—pulled her forward.
The second she stepped toward him, she felt a subtle pull in her chest, like the air itself had weight. She could feel him, feel the room differently. And then—just like that—Dave smiled, and she realized her lips had parted in disbelief.
"I'm not lying," he said softly. "Everything around us… frozen. But we can talk, move, breathe… exist. For a minute."
Her mind spun. Her career. Her life. Reality. Nothing made sense. But the intensity in his eyes—the strange combination of urgency and warmth—rooted her in this impossible truth.
"You said 'one minute'?" she asked.
He nodded. "Exactly one minute. Then… it all resets. And tomorrow, it'll happen again."
She swallowed hard. Her pulse raced as she looked around. The scissors, the dress on the mannequin, the rain outside… all perfectly still. Not a sound, not a drop of motion. And yet… he was alive.
Elizabeth's rational mind screamed don't trust him, but another part—a quieter, desperate part—whispered this is extraordinary.
"What do you want from me?" she asked finally, her voice trembling.
Dave's smile faded, replaced by something more serious, heavier. "I need your help. If you don't…" His gaze dropped, distant. "…I might never exist."
Elizabeth stepped back, a chill running down her spine. Her heart pounded like a drum. "What do you mean, 'never exist'? Who are you really?"
Before he could answer, the sound of a single chime echoed in her ears. The wall clock ticked again. Seconds resumed. The hum of the heater returned. The pigeon outside flapped its wings and disappeared into the gray London sky.
And just like that, Dave was gone.
Elizabeth blinked. The studio was silent, normal. She reached for the floor, but the scissors lay still. No trace of him.
Her chest heaved. "What… what just happened?"
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a quiet voice whispered: 11:11. Tomorrow. It'll happen again.
And with that thought, a mix of fear and thrill settled over her. She didn't know if she was ready—but she knew she had to be.