I used to believe time was quiet.
It moved without asking for attention. It carried people forward, leaving no fingerprints behind. I trusted it the way you trust breathing. You do not think about it until something goes wrong.
That morning felt gentle. Soft light slipped through my window and rested on the wall like it wanted to stay. The city outside was already awake. Cars hummed. A dog barked once, then stopped. Everything sounded normal. That should have been enough.
I lay in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling. There was a small crack above the door. I had noticed it years ago. I always counted its branches when I could not sleep. Seven lines. One thicker than the rest. It made me feel calm.
I got up, brushed my teeth, and stood there longer than needed. My face looked tired. Not broken. Just tired. I told myself it was nothing.
I made coffee. The smell filled the kitchen, warm and bitter. I spilled a little on the counter and wiped it with my sleeve. I always did that. I laughed quietly at myself. Some habits never change.
On my way out, I checked the clock above the sink. Eight twelve. I remember that clearly. The red second hand ticked forward like a tiny heartbeat.
The walk to work was easy. The air felt clean. The sky was pale blue with thin clouds that looked like brush strokes. I passed the old bookstore on the corner. The owner waved at me. I waved back. We did not speak. We never did.
At the archive, the doors opened with the same low sound they always made. Inside, the lights were already on. Rows of shelves waited in silence. I liked that part. History does not rush you. It lets you come close at your own pace.
I sat at my desk and opened a folder I had been working on for weeks. Old records. Missing dates. Small gaps that no one else cared about. I did. I always did.
Around noon, something strange happened.
I turned a page and froze.
I had already read it.
Not in the usual way. Not like when you reread something and remember the shape of the words. This felt deeper. My chest tightened. My fingers tingled.
I knew what the next line would say.
I whispered it before my eyes reached it.
When I read it out loud, my voice shook.
That made no sense.
I pushed the feeling away and stood up. Sometimes the mind plays tricks when it is tired. I went to the window and looked outside. A man crossed the street with a red bag. A woman followed behind him. She dropped something and bent to pick it up.
Then it happened again.
The man crossed the street.
The woman followed behind him.
She dropped something and bent to pick it up.
My breath caught. I pressed my hand to the glass. My heart beat too fast.
No. I told myself. No.
I stepped back. The room felt too bright now. Sounds pressed in from every side. Papers rustled. A chair scraped the floor. Someone laughed far away.
I sat down and checked the time on my phone.
Eight twelve.
My mouth went dry.
I stood so fast my chair tipped. I did not catch it. I did not care. I ran.
Outside, the light hit me like I had just opened my eyes for the first time. People moved past me, calm and unaware. The red bag. The woman. The drop. The bend.
Again.
I shouted without meaning to. Heads turned. Someone asked if I was okay. I nodded. I did not trust my voice.
I walked. I do not remember how long. My legs carried me home. My hands shook as I unlocked the door.
Inside, the apartment looked untouched. The smell of coffee was gone. The counter was clean.
The clock above the sink ticked.
Eight twelve.
I backed away slowly. My foot hit something. I looked down.
The coffee stain.
Still there.
My chest hurt. Tears filled my eyes before I could stop them. I laughed and cried at the same time. It sounded ugly and small.
This could not be happening. I had read stories like this. I had studied broken timelines and false memories. They belonged on paper. Not here. Not to me.
I sat on the floor and pressed my palms to my eyes. I counted my breaths. One. Two. Three.
When I opened my eyes, I was in bed.
Light slipped through the window.
The city hummed.
A dog barked once, then stopped.
I stared at the ceiling.
The crack above the door had seven lines.
One thicker than the rest.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I whispered a word I did not know I was about to say.
Again.
The clock above the sink ticked softly.
Eight twelve.