It was one evening when I first felt it. I knew from the very start that something was off. It was a powerful sense of familiarity—the eerie conviction that this specific moment, the faces, the phases were repeating themselves. It felt as if I knew exactly what was supposed to happen, and it unfolded precisely as I anticipated. A wave of absolute shock and anxiety washed over me.
I tried to shake it off, convincing myself that I was probably tired and my mind was playing tricks on me. But then again, those details were too sharp, too deliberate. The way the streetlamp flickered twice before the screen turned black, the distant barking of a dog, the exact structural pattern of the clouds blocking the moon—I was sure I had witnessed this sequence before. It wasn't a memory; it was an active echo of reality. It felt as if my consciousness was vibrating at a different frequency, dragging me backward into a moment I had already lived. I stood frozen on the pavement, still holding the bag, terrified of what would happen next, because deep down, I already knew.