That morning felt ordinary almost too ordinary.
The Tuesday sky arranged its thin clouds like wounds stitched shut. Nothing seemed strange, at least until Elara woke with the faint sense that something had just slipped out of her life, as if a dream had been yanked away before she could hold on to it.
She sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the clock showing 06:42.
Her body felt fresh. Her head, light. But her chest… her chest felt like it was holding water. Heavy, for no reason.
"Tuesday," she murmured. "Safest day of the week."
Elara tried to laugh, tried to shake off the feeling.
It didn't work.
She showered quickly, fixed her hair, then grabbed a cup of coffee from her apartment's tiny pantry. The moment she took the first sip, she felt it again a strange, oversized déjà vu. Too big for a small memory. Too small for trauma.
She brushed it off.
New day. Old routine.
And she had no idea that this morning was the beginning of something that would tear her entire timeline apart.
The elevator of the Vale & Byrne building chimed softly as its doors opened.
Elara stepped inside and pressed the button for the seventh floor.
It should've been a normal moment until someone held the door from outside.
Aiden Vale.
The quiet man who rarely spoke, rarely smiled, and rarely seemed to care about anything except the glow of his computer screen. But this morning, when he stepped in and stood beside her, something in his gaze made Elara's chest tighten.
It wasn't the look of a man seeing a coworker.
It was the look of a man who had lost someone and just found them again.
"Elara."
His voice was low, slow, as if tasting her name.
He never addressed anyone by name.
Elara swallowed. "Uh… morning, Mr. Vale."
Aiden didn't respond. He only stared at the glowing number seven, then said softly almost like a warning, "Don't go home late today."
Elara frowned. "Why?"
"Intuition," he said. Short. Cold.
But his eyes… his eyes held a fear she couldn't decipher.
The elevator doors opened.
Aiden stepped out first, his shoulders tense as if carrying an invisible weight.
Elara watched his back and felt something slip inside her memory a shadow she knew shouldn't exist.
Something… dangerous.
The day went on normally.
A ten o'clock meeting.
Revision reports.
Emails multiplying like tiny, hissing snakes.
But in the late afternoon, at exactly 18:07, a coldness crawled up Elara's spine.
She didn't know where it came from.
But her body reacted an ancient instinct telling her not to move.
The power flickered. Lights stuttered.
Everyone groaned.
Elara froze.
She heard something fall a heavy object far down the hall.
Then footsteps. Too slow. Too steady.
Aiden appeared at the corner of the room, his face pale as if he'd seen a ghost.
"Elara."
His voice had changed. Not cold.
Not flat.
Afraid.
"We need to go. Now."
"What is it?" Elara stood, pulse hammering.
Aiden didn't answer. He grabbed her wrist the touch of a man who never touched anyone.
And the moment their skin met
Elara saw it.
A flash of memory that wasn't hers.
Pieces of a life she had never lived.
She saw herself.
Running.
Falling.
A door swinging open.
A clock… 23:59.
And darkness swallowing her whole.
Elara gasped.
Aiden released her quickly, as if realizing what he'd done.
"Don't go home late," he repeated.
But the words cracked slightly emotion leaking from the armor he wore.
Night arrived.
Elara reached her apartment at 23:40.
She didn't know why she felt the need to rush.
She didn't know why Aiden's warning felt like fact, not superstition.
But when the clock hit 23:59
the world fell silent.
Lights died.
Her phone went dark.
The air froze thick as glass.
"Elara."
The voice was not human.
Not Aiden.
Something hit her door.
Hard.
Again.
And again.
Elara stumbled backward, breath broken with panic.
Something gripped the doorknob.
And in the split second before the door could burst
She saw the clock.
23:59
The final second dropped.
And the world went white.
Elara opened her eyes.
The Tuesday sky arranged its thin clouds.
The clock read 06:42.
Her body fresh.
Her head light.
Her chest heavy.
Exactly the same.
She exhaled, feeling the cold run up her spine.
"No…" she whispered. "This… isn't a dream."
She stood.
And as she walked to the pantry to make coffee, her left hand trembled on its own
as if her body remembered a death her mind was not allowed to keep.
The sentence surfaced without invitation:
"Tuesday… will never end."
That morning carried no omen, yet somehow, Elara woke with a strange weight clinging to the back of her neck like fog. The Tuesday sky looked ordinary thin clouds veiling half the sun in that soft gray many people called "safe weather." But appearances never spoke the full truth. Elara stared at the clock frozen at 06:42, and for a moment she stood still, as if the numbers were calling her, forcing her to remember something that did not exist in her life.
Her head felt light, her body refreshed, but her chest… held a formless heaviness. Sometimes it felt like it might burst; sometimes like it was holding back a wave without a name.
She rubbed her face, trying to chase away the remnants of a dream that hadn't even left a shadow. "Tuesday," she muttered softly, as if naming the day might tame the small anxiety clawing at her chest. "Safest day."
But nothing felt safe that morning.
Elara showered, fixed her hair the same way she had every Tuesday in three years of working at Vale & Byrne. Routine should've been her anchor; today, the anchor felt frayed, like an old rope slowly snapping. When she poured hot coffee into her ceramic mug, the bitter smell usually comforting triggered that unsettling déjà vu again. Big, thick, with no origin.
She stood in her pantry for a long moment, watching the steam rise.
As if the steam was trying to form something
a shape she almost recognized,
but that vanished the moment she reached for it.
"Great. I'm stressed," she sighed, half-laughing.
But even her laugh didn't sound like her own.
The office elevator chimed open.
Elara pressed the button for the seventh floor.
It should've been the same old Tuesday moment waiting for the elevator to move, hearing cheap instrumental music, staring at her reflection that always looked too tired for twenty-seven.
Before the doors closed, a hand stopped them.
Someone stepped in.
Aiden Vale.
A name that sounded like a thriller character and a face that matched the genre. Quiet. Cold. Neat like a perfectly formatted document. But today, something was cracked behind his calmness subtle, nearly invisible, but enough to make the back of Elara's neck prickle.
"Elara."
He rarely said anyone's name. Not even their manager's.
Elara nodded stiffly. "Morning… Mr. Vale."
Aiden didn't answer. His eyes stared at the glowing seven but the expression wasn't that of someone waiting.
It was the expression of someone remembering something heavy.
Or forgetting something worse.
Without preamble, he said quietly, "Don't go home late today."
The tone was flat.
But fear slipped beneath it like paper tearing.
Elara whipped her head toward him. "Why?"
"Intuition."
Short. Unhelpful. Illogical.
And that was what made her heart change rhythm.
The elevator opened on the eighth floor.
Aiden stepped out, his stride long and taut, like a man fighting an invisible enemy.
Elara watched him leave and felt a small wave slide across her mind not familiarity, but loss.
Strange.
Impossible.
She shook it off. Work waited.
The day progressed normally, yet everything felt slightly distorted as if she were watching her own life through thick glass. A ten o'clock meeting, document revisions, a frozen laptop, coworkers complaining about the weather. Normal. Except for one thing: every time she heard footsteps in the hallway, she turned instinctively expecting something. Someone.
As the evening settled and office lights flickered on one by one, the cold feeling returned.
At exactly 18:07, the air shifted dense, heavy.
Not AC.
Not humidity.
Something her body recognized as danger before her mind did.
The lights dipped. Flickered.
People groaned.
Elara froze.
Something heavy fell at the end of the corridor.
Muffled, but unmistakable.
Then footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Not human in their rhythm.
Aiden appeared in the hallway, pale.
"Elara."
This time his voice wasn't cold.
Or flat.
Or professional.
It was terrified.
"We need to go. Now."
Elara stood. "Is there a fi"
Aiden didn't wait.
He grabbed her wrist the first time he had touched anyone in this building. His hand was cold, but his grip was filled with panic.
The moment their skin touched
Elara saw something.
A memory not hers.
Flashes.
A doorway.
A dark stairwell.
Breath choking.
And a clock 23:59.
She gasped.
Aiden dropped her hand like it burned him.
"Go home. Now. Don't wait."
The tone wasn't an order.
It was a desperate plea.
Night fell like a heavy curtain.
Elara reached her apartment at 23:40 late.
She should've left earlier.
But extra reports, an unexpected meeting, and a stubborn curiosity held her back.
She sat on her sofa, trying to slow her breathing.
"It's just a weird day. Just a weird guy with a weird feeling."
But when the clock approached 23:59…
the air changed.
Time thickened.
Seconds stretched thin.
The apartment lights flickered once, then died.
A knock sounded on her door.
Slow.
Soft.
Then louder.
Elara stepped back, breath ragged.
"Who's there?" her voice trembled.
No response.
Just the knocking turning into pounding.
Then a voice called her name.
Not human.
Not Aiden.
Layered, as if spoken from beneath water.
"Elaaara…"
The doorknob twisted.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Too patient to be human.
The final second fell.
23:59
The door shuddered violently.
And before it could break
the world burst into white.
Silence.
Morning returned.
Elara woke with the same body.
The same clock.
The same sky.
06:42
She sat frozen, staring at the clock that had never felt so sinister.
She clutched the blanket, struggling to breathe.
"This…"
her breath hitched,
"…isn't a dream."
She stood, her body moving like it remembered a path she had never walked.
As she stepped into the pantry, her hand trembled.
Coffee dripped into her mug.
Same smell.
Same steam.
But wrong.
As if her body remembered what happened last night,
while her mind wasn't allowed to.
She closed her eyes, fighting the tremor.
"Tuesday…" she whispered.
"…isn't ending."
And something outside the window watched her back.
She didn't know its shape.
She didn't know its origin.
But she knew one thing:
She died last night.
And today has begun again.