She didn't tell anyone.Not that she had anyone to tell.
But she carried it all the same — the folded lanyard, the dream-park made real, the tea with no brand, the shadow at 6:03.
The word: "Mine."The sentence: "Tomorrow, you'll remember."And now… she had.
Except not like she thought.Not like remembering.
More like something remembering her.
That night, the cameras looped again.She watched the same minute play three times before the feed caught up.She didn't rewind it.She just stared.
12:03 AM.
The can rolled again.But slower this time.Like it wasn't meant to reach her. Like it wanted to wait.
She whispered without realizing:"Why lemon tea?"
Behind her, a voice answered:"Because that's what you picked. The first time."
She spun around.
He was there.Casual. Still. Realer than ever before. Hoodie half-zipped, hair damp with rain that hadn't fallen.
Not smiling.Not threatening.
Just… there.
He held the can, unopened.Set it gently on the counter.Met her eyes.
"Thank you, Lina."
Her name.Said calmly.Not like a guess. Not like a discovery.But like a habit.
As if he'd said it a hundred times before.
"You know me."
It wasn't a question.
"I did," he said. "Do. Will."
"Pick one."
He shook his head. "That's not how this works."
She stepped back. Just one step.He didn't follow.Didn't move at all.
"Who are you?"
He tilted his head slightly. "You don't remember yet?"
"No."
"Good," he said. And smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
On the monitor behind them, the feed stuttered.
Two frames.Then three.Then stillness.
And in that frozen screen —they were both gone.
She didn't ask the next question.Didn't need to.Because he reached into his hoodie pocket, slowly, carefully, and pulled out a piece of folded paper.Set it between them.
"You dropped this."
She didn't touch it.
"You keep saying that," she said.
"Because it keeps being true."
She reached for it. The paper was heavier than it looked.She unfolded it — once, twice.Nothing on the front.
She turned it over.
One word. Same handwriting.
Mine.
But this time, it was different.
This time, there was a second word underneath.
Before.
She looked up.
He was already gone.
Outside, the rain had started.Except she hadn't heard it begin.
The receipt on the counter was gone.The tea can still sat untouched, condensation forming.
And behind the counter monitor —a note.
Taped. Old. Curling at the corners.
It wasn't there before.
She leaned in.
Tiny, ink-faded letters:
"This isn't your first loop."
Back at her apartment, the windows were fogged.
But one corner had been wiped clean — a perfect circle the size of a hand.
Below it, etched faintly into the glass from inside:
"You asked for this."
She didn't scream.
Didn't panic.
She just stood in the dark kitchen and felt everything shift.
Like the walls had been there too long.
Like the furniture was tired of pretending.
Like she was starting to remember the wrong version of herself.
6:03 AM was coming.
And this time, it wouldn't be a message.
It would be a choice.
She didn't sleep that day.
But she closed her eyes.
For hours.
She lay in her bed, blanket twisted at her feet, watching the ceiling like it might shift if she stared long enough.
Nothing did.
Except her.
She blinked once and found herself holding the note again — the one that said Before.
She didn't remember picking it up.
Didn't remember bringing it home.
She didn't remember the cold on her fingers.
But it was there.
Ink smudged slightly at the edge, like it had gotten wet. Like she had cried on it. Or maybe like someone else had.
Her hands trembled, but not from fear. From dissonance.
From the weight of too many truths circling her like moths in the dark.
She rose and walked to her bookshelf.
Something was missing.
Not a book — a space.
A shape.
One centimeter of absence.
She ran her fingers along the spines.Stopped.Paused.
There — one book out of order. Not the missing one.Another. Replaced wrong.
She pulled it down.Flipped it open.
It wasn't a novel.
It was a journal.
Her own.
Except she didn't own one.
Not anymore.
She had in high school, maybe. For three weeks. Then she'd stopped. Lost interest.
But here it was.Her handwriting.Older. Tighter. Slanted from rushed thought.
She flipped to the first page.
There was no date.Just four lines.
"If I forget you, remember me harder.""If I leave, don't chase — follow.""If I disappear, look inside the pauses.""I chose this."
She touched the ink.Still dry. Still old.
But real.
Her phone vibrated once.Not a message.An alarm.
Set for 6:03.
Tomorrow.
She hadn't set it.
She opened her closet.Slowly.
Not looking for anything.Not expecting anything.
But there, on the floor, beneath her shoes — folded clothing.
Not hers.
A shirt. A jacket.
And in the pocket — another folded page.
This time, it was different.
This time, it was a drawing.
A sketch.
A face.
Hers.
But not her now.
Younger. Softer. Wary.
With a note scribbled in the margin:
"Second loop, third contact."
She stared at it until the image blurred.
Until the face stopped being hers.
Until she wasn't sure which version was watching.
Outside, the streetlight flickered twice.
Not out of sync.
Not random.
Just enough to feel intentional.
She whispered into the stillness:
"…I don't remember asking."
A pause.
Then, from somewhere far too close:
"That's the point."
She didn't move for a long time.
She stood barefoot on the wood floor, clutching the drawing in her hand, her thumb pressing into the paper as if pressure could reveal something beneath the ink.
The walls felt closer tonight.Or maybe she'd grown larger inside them.Out of alignment.
She walked to the mirror in the hallway.Not to look at herself.Just to see if the reflection still obeyed.
It did.
Mostly.
But something in her eyes didn't hold still.A twitch. A flicker.Like a memory refusing to die.
In the corner of the mirror, taped to the edge — something new.
A photo strip.
Three frames.
Her. Him. Blurred. Laughing.
Too happy.
Too impossible.
She didn't remember this.Didn't know where it had come from.Didn't know when it could have happened.
But her fingers still knew how to hold it.
On the back, one sentence written in ink that bled faintly through:
"We got it right once."