The lights came back on at 11:52 p.m.
Not all at once. One bulb flickered to life, then another, like the apartment was remembering how to exist. Ada lay motionless against James's chest, her breathing shallow but steady.
"Ada," James whispered. "Ada, look at me."
Her eyelids fluttered.
"I'm here," she murmured. "I think."
Relief hit him so hard his knees weakened.
"You collapsed," he said. "You screamed."
She winced, pressing her fingers to her temple. "Yeah. I remember."
James stiffened. "What do you remember?"
Ada didn't answer immediately. She slowly sat up, scanning the room as if checking whether it was real.
"I remember being alone," she said finally. "Not just dying. Waiting. Between loops."
James's blood ran cold.
"There was… space," she continued. "Not darkness. Not light. Just stillness. And voices."
"Whose voices?" he asked.
She met his eyes. "Mine."
They didn't sleep.
Time continued its unnatural march forward, minute by minute, refusing to correct itself. By 1:26 a.m., the city outside had gone eerily quiet. Sirens had stopped. Traffic had thinned to nothing.
James sat at the kitchen table, staring at his notebook.
RULES OF THE LOOP
The list no longer felt complete.
Ada stood near the window, arms wrapped around herself.
"James," she said suddenly. "Have you ever found something that didn't belong?"
He looked up sharply. "What kind of something?"
"Something familiar," she said. "But not yours."
His pulse quickened.
"Yes," he said carefully. "Why?"
Ada turned from the window. "Because I think I left myself a message."
Silence filled the room.
"A message?" James repeated.
She nodded. "Not tonight. Not in this loop. But I remember writing it."
"Where?" he asked.
Ada hesitated. "Somewhere you wouldn't look."
James stood slowly.
They found it at 2:03 a.m.
Behind the loose floorboard under Ada's bed—one James was certain he had never touched.
She pried it up with trembling fingers and pulled out a folded piece of paper, yellowed at the edges, creased as if it had been opened and closed too many times.
James's breath caught.
His handwriting stared back at him.
"No," he whispered. "I didn't—"
"You did," Ada said softly. "Just not this version of you."
James unfolded the note.
The ink was slightly smeared, rushed, desperate.
If you're reading this, it means the loop is unstable.
You tried saving her. You tried leaving her. You tried breaking the day. None of it worked.
So you made a different choice.
James's hands began to shake.
Ada is not just dying. She is accumulating.
Every death stays with her. Every memory stacks.
That's why she starts remembering before the reset.
Ada sucked in a sharp breath.
James continued reading.
You will reach a point where she becomes aware of all versions of herself.
When that happens, she will no longer be the same person.
Do not mistake recognition for forgiveness.
James swallowed hard.
There is a moment—around the ninth iteration—when she will ask you a question.
Your answer determines everything.
James froze.
"Around the ninth…" he whispered.
Ada's voice was barely audible. "This is the ninth day you remember."
He forced himself to keep reading.
If she asks whether you would choose the world over her,
lie.
James's chest constricted.
The truth will destroy her.
The lie will destroy you.
But only one of those ends the loop.
James lowered the paper slowly.
The room felt smaller.
"James," Ada said quietly. "What question?"
He looked at her.
The memory of her words from earlier echoed in his mind.
You choosing not to save me.
His throat burned.
"Ada…" he began.
She stepped closer. "Would you?"
The question hung between them, heavy and absolute.
"Would you choose the world," she continued, "if saving me meant breaking it?"
James saw it then—the divergence point. The invisible fork every version of him had been racing toward.
He thought of the city.
The people.
The consequences the voice had warned about.
Then he looked at Ada.
Alive. Tired. Aware.
He folded the note carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
"Yes," he said.
Ada stared at him.
The silence stretched.
Then she smiled.
Not warmly.
Not sadly.
Knowingly.
"That's what you said last time too," she whispered.
James's blood ran cold. "Last time?"
Ada stepped back.
"Don't worry," she said gently. "You didn't remember it."
The air pressure spiked.
The walls groaned.
Somewhere deep in the city, something broke—not glass, not concrete, but sequence.
Ada pressed her hand to her chest.
"I can feel them," she said. "All of me."
James took a step toward her. "Ada, listen—"
"I did," she interrupted. "For nine loops."
Her eyes met his.
"And now it's my turn to decide."
The clock ticked forward.
2:17 a.m.
Time did not reset.
It bent.
And the note from another loop finished doing what it was written to do.