The first sound Elias Gray heard was the slow ticking of a clock.
Not the crisp, metallic tick of a wristwatch — but something older, heavier, almost deliberate, like it was weighing every second before allowing it to pass. The sound echoed faintly through the still air, keeping time with his pulse.
When he opened his eyes, the world around him was washed in a pale, sleepy light. The ceiling above was made of old wood, its surface faded to the color of dust and smoke. The air smelled faintly of yeast and coffee, and a kettle whistled somewhere nearby.
He didn't know where he was.
For a moment, he just lay there, staring up at the wooden beams, his mind an empty slate. His body felt heavy, his throat dry. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes — the kind of ache that comes after a long sleep, or a night spent drinking too much and remembering too little.
Then, a voice.
"Morning, Elias."
He turned. A man stood in the doorway — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a flour-dusted apron and a smile that looked too easy for someone Elias couldn't recognize.
"You slept late again," the man said warmly, as though this was something they joked about often. "Big day today, huh?"
Elias blinked. "I… suppose so," he said slowly, testing the sound of his own voice.
The man laughed, the sound deep and genuine. "You always say that. Breakfast's ready."
The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of roasted beans. It was comforting — familiar even — but that familiarity only made Elias more uneasy.
He rose from the narrow bed and followed the man into a small kitchen. Everything was neatly arranged: polished utensils, spotless counters, a single window where sunlight streamed through lace curtains.
Outside, a quiet street curved away into the distance. Three children ran past, their laughter high and clear. A woman stood by a flower shop, waving at them with a gentle smile.
Elias frowned slightly. The scene felt like something from an old photograph — peaceful, ideal, untouched by time.
He sat at the table, watching as the man placed a plate of toast and eggs in front of him.
"Eat up," the man said. "You've got a lot to do before noon."
Elias glanced at the clock on the wall. Its brass pendulum swung steadily beneath the face, the hands pointing to 11:55 AM.
He picked up his fork. "What exactly do I have to do?" he asked.
The man hesitated, his brow furrowing just a little. "You'll remember once you step outside," he said finally, with a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Elias chewed slowly, thinking. He didn't remember agreeing to any plans. He didn't even remember arriving here.
After a few minutes, he looked up again. "By the way," he said casually, "your clock's stuck."
The man looked up from his coffee. "Hm? Oh, no, it's right."
Elias paused. "But it hasn't moved."
The man chuckled softly, as if amused by a child's confusion. "It never does."
Elias stared at him. "What do you mean, never?"
"Just the way it is," the man said, turning his attention back to the cup in his hands.
Elias's stomach tightened. He looked back at the clock. Still 11:55.
Outside, the same three children ran past again — the same rhythm, the same laughter. The same woman waved from the flower shop. A bell rang from somewhere down the street.
His breath caught. He turned toward the window, watching closely.
The girl in the blue dress tripped, stumbled, laughed — the same laugh, the same movement. Again. And again.
It wasn't similar. It was identical.
Elias stood up suddenly, his chair scraping against the floor. "What's going on here?"
The man looked at him blankly. "Hm?"
"The clock. The kids. Everything's… repeating."
For the first time, something flickered in the man's eyes — confusion, maybe fear. Then it vanished, replaced by that same gentle smile.
"Morning, Elias," he said cheerfully. "You slept late again."
Elias froze. "What?"
"You slept late again," the man repeated, his tone identical to before. "Big day today, huh?"
The kettle began to whistle — again.
Elias's heart started pounding. "Wait—stop!" he shouted, but the man was already turning toward the stove.
The clock ticked once.Then again.Still 11:55.
The children laughed outside.The woman waved.The bell rang.
The same.Exactly the same.
Elias backed toward the wall, his breathing quick and shallow. "This isn't real," he whispered. "It can't be real."
He reached for the doorknob, flung the door open, and stepped outside.
The air was crisp, the cobblestone street warm beneath his feet. The bakery stood behind him. To his right, a row of tidy houses with painted shutters. To his left, the flower shop — its sign swinging lazily in the breeze.
The same woman stood there, arranging the same bouquet. When she noticed him, she smiled. "Morning, Mr. Gray. Lovely weather, isn't it?"
He swallowed hard. "Do I… know you?"
"Of course!" she said brightly. "You always stop by for lilies."
"I do?"
Her smile didn't waver. "Every morning," she said.
Every morning.
Elias turned slowly, scanning the street. The air shimmered faintly, like heat rising from asphalt. Every face he saw wore the same placid expression — content, calm, unbothered.
And above them all, the bell tower loomed, its hands frozen at 11:55.
Elias took a step forward, his legs trembling. "What is this place?" he whispered.
No one answered.
The laughter of the children echoed again, bright and endless.
He looked up at the sky — blue, cloudless, flawless. Too perfect.
Then, a sound behind him.
"Morning, Elias," the baker called cheerfully from the doorway. "You slept late again."
Elias turned, and in that moment, the world shuddered. The air flickered — like a frame skipping in a film reel. The flower shop blinked out of focus. The children's laughter stuttered, paused, then resumed.
And when it did, Elias found himself standing once again in the kitchen, staring at the same plate of toast, the same coffee cup, the same man smiling at him.
"Morning, Elias," the man said.
The kettle began to whistle.
And the clock — the same brass clock — still read 11:55.
To be continued…
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