By the next morning, the school had already decided what the truth was.
Not because anyone had proven anything, but because people needed the day to continue.
Benny realized this before first period even started.
The hallway buzzed with the usual noise—
complaints about homework, arguments over lunch money, half-finished jokes.
Lockers slammed.
Someone laughed too loudly.
Someone else ran, late, shoes squeaking against the floor.
No one talked about yesterday.
At least, not seriously.
Benny slowed near the notice board, pretending to read an outdated flyer while he listened. Two students passed behind him.
"Did you hear about that thing in Caldwell's class?" one asked.
"Yeah. Audio glitch, right?"
"Apparently. People are dumb."
They laughed and kept walking.
That was it.
An entire moment—fractured, argued, replayed—compressed into a shrug.
Benny felt something tighten in his chest.
Ethan was already in their homeroom when Benny arrived, seated near the window, notebook open but untouched. He looked up as Benny slid into the seat beside him.
"You notice?" Ethan asked quietly.
"That nobody cares?" Benny replied.
Ethan nodded. "That nobody wants to."
The teacher began roll call. Names were answered. Attendance marked. Reality stitched itself back together with bureaucratic efficiency.
Ethan leaned closer. "I checked the footage again last night."
Benny didn't look at him. "You're not supposed to have access to that."
"I don't," Ethan said. "But my cousin does. IT internship."
"And?"
"And the audio glitch only exists on the archived copy," Ethan said. "The raw feed doesn't have it."
Benny's breath caught.
"What does the raw feed show?" he asked.
Ethan hesitated. "Nothing unusual."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I know," Ethan said. "Which means one of two things."
Benny waited.
"Either the archive corrupted itself," Ethan continued, "or someone decided the archive needed correcting."
Benny finally turned to look at him. Ethan's expression wasn't excited. It wasn't scared.
It was focused.
That scared Benny more.
The rest of the day unfolded like any other.
Classes. Notes. Lunch. A quiz no one had studied for. Someone spilled juice on the cafeteria table and cursed loudly enough to get yelled at.
Benny moved through it all like he was underwater.
He laughed when expected to. Answered questions. Walked when the bell rang.
But every sound felt slightly delayed. Every motion felt rehearsed.
At lunch, Maya sat across from them, scrolling through her phone.
"You guys are still on about yesterday?" she asked, not looking up.
Ethan stiffened. "You don't think it was strange?"
"I think people misremember things all the time," Maya replied. "There are studies on it."
"Multiple people misremembered the same thing," Ethan said.
"Group psychology," she said immediately.
"It's not that deep."
Benny watched her face as she spoke.
Calm. Certain. Comfortable.
"You didn't hear the silence," he said before he could stop himself.
Maya finally looked up. "What silence?"
Ethan glanced at Benny sharply.
"The part where everything just… stopped," Benny said. "For a second."
Maya frowned. Not in fear. In confusion.
"There was no silence," she said. "The bell rang. He talked. We left."
She paused. "Are you okay?"
The question landed heavier than an accusation.
"I'm fine," Benny said.
Maya studied him for another moment, then shrugged and went back to her phone.
Conversation over.
After school, Ethan didn't head for the exit.
"Walk with me," he said.
Benny hesitated. "Where?"
"Nowhere," Ethan replied. "Just—don't go home yet."
They wandered the neighborhood without a destination, passing familiar streets that felt newly unreliable.
A dog barked behind a fence. A car passed too fast. Somewhere, someone was practicing piano, the melody uneven and repetitive.
Ethan finally spoke again.
"People forget because it's easier," he said.
"That's what bothers me."
"Forget what?" Benny asked.
"That something didn't line up," Ethan replied.
"That for one second, the world didn't agree with itself."
Benny stopped walking.
Ethan turned back. "You heard it too, didn't you?"
Benny didn't answer.
"You don't have to explain," Ethan said quickly. "I'm not asking you to. I just—" He exhaled. "I know when I'm being told to drop something. And I don't want to."
Benny's phone vibrated in his pocket.
Once.
He ignored it.
"What if it happens again?" Ethan asked. "But bigger?"
Benny swallowed. "Then people will forget again."
"Not everyone," Ethan said. "I won't."
That was supposed to be comforting.
It wasn't.
Then after walking a bit more thay went there own way.
That night, Benny sat at his desk long after the house had gone quiet. His phone lay face up now, screen dark, innocent.
He hadn't opened SPECTRA.
He didn't need to.
The vibration came at 11:59 p.m.
Exactly.
The screen lit up on its own.
No icon this time.
Just text.
"STABILITY RESTORED"
Benny stared at the words.
"What does that mean?" he whispered.
No response.
He waited.
The screen changed.
"ERROR MARGIN ACCEPTABLE"
His hands curled into fists.
"Acceptable to who?"
The lights didn't flicker. The room didn't change. No voice filled the air.
Just text.
"ATTENTION DECLINES NATURALLY"
Benny felt a cold understanding settle in.
"People forget," he said aloud.
CORRECT
"And the ones who don't?"
The cursor blinked.
Once.
Then:
VARIABLES
Benny's chest tightened. "Is Ethan a variable?"
The phone went dark.
No confirmation.
No denial.
Just silence.
The next day, things were quieter.
Too quiet.
No one mentioned the incident. Not even as a joke. It was as if the conversation had been collectively agreed to be unnecessary.
Ethan noticed too.
"They're not just forgetting," he said under his breath during class. "They're avoiding it."
Benny didn't reply.
He was watching the clock.
The second hand moved smoothly.
Perfectly.
He wondered how many seconds the world could afford to lose before someone noticed again.
And how many of those seconds were his fault..