The sun hadn't risen yet, but the city was awake — engines humming, sirens distant, life continuing in loops that Arin no longer trusted.
He sat by the window, the stale air of his apartment pressing on him like static.
He hadn't opened the curtains in days.
Every time he did, he caught movement where there shouldn't be any — the street repeating, people walking in mirrored paths.
He needed help. Not from the university, not from the machines — from someone who still believed him, not the data.
He found the name in an old directory:
Leah Thomas — Mira's research assistant from a decade ago.
She'd quit after Mira's disappearance, vanished into private research.
He hadn't spoken to her in years.
Arin hesitated before dialing her number.
Three rings.
Four.
Then a voice:
> "...Hello?"
Her tone was wary, older than he remembered, but unmistakably hers.
> "Leah. It's Arin Sen."
"Arin?" A pause. "From Mira's lab? It's been... God, ten years."
"I need to see you. It's about her."
A sharp breath on the line.
> "Mira's gone, Arin. You know that."
"No," he said, voice breaking. "She isn't. Not completely."
Silence.
Then, softly:
> "Where are you?"
---
They met at a small café near the river — a place she chose because it had "real light," as she said.
The sun hit the glass in fractured gold, the smell of roasted beans cutting through the metallic taste that seemed to follow Arin everywhere.
Leah looked different — older, yes, but her eyes still held that analytical calm Mira used to rely on.
When she saw him, her expression flickered between relief and alarm.
> "You look like you haven't slept in a month."
"I haven't," Arin said simply.
He slid a small drive across the table.
> "That's Mira's final log. I found it. She—she crossed over, Leah. And I think she left a door open."
Leah didn't touch the drive.
> "I burned that project from my memory for a reason. Mira was obsessed. She thought consciousness could linger between brain death and recall. She wasn't wrong — she just didn't know what it would cost."
Arin leaned forward. "You believe me."
She exhaled through her nose. "I believe Mira didn't die the way the reports said."
---
They sat in silence for a while, the world outside the café strangely still.
A woman across the street poured coffee into a cup —
and then, impossibly, poured it again, in reverse.
The liquid flowed back into the pot.
Leah froze mid-sentence.
Arin whispered, "Do you see it?"
She nodded slowly, face pale. "The loop."
The café lights flickered.
For a moment, all the reflections in the glass turned black — silhouettes frozen in place, staring inward.
Leah's hand trembled as she reached for the drive.
> "You said a door was left open. What kind of door, Arin?"
He swallowed hard.
> "The kind that doesn't close once you look at it."
---
She pocketed the drive, standing abruptly.
> "Meet me at my office tonight. I'll analyze it on an isolated system — no network, no signal. We'll see what she found."
> "Leah, wait—"
She turned, voice softer now.
> "If you're right, Arin, you didn't just survive death. You might've rewritten it."
She left before he could answer.
He watched her disappear into the crowd, her reflection fading half a step behind her.
When he finally looked down at his coffee, it was cold.
He checked the time.
02:57.
---
That night, Leah never arrived at her office.
Her phone rang until it cut off at 03:00.
Arin sat alone in his apartment, her empty chair glowing on the video call feed, faint static crawling across the image.
Then, from the speaker — her voice, distorted but clear:
> "I saw it, Arin. Mira was right. It's not death — it's memory trying to wake up."
The line went dead.
---
He stared at the frozen image of her office, heart thundering.
In the background, behind her reflection on the glass wall, something moved.
It was waiting.
---