It started with the streetlight.

  Just one. The one across from Mariah’s house. It flickered three times, paused, then blinked out completely. Nothing strange about that. Except it had done the exact same thing the night before. And the night before that. Same timing. Same rhythm. Like a broken loop.

  I stood there watching it until my breath fogged the air, half-expecting it to start again. When it didn’t, I crossed the street.

  Mariah met me at the door with her usual grin, the kind that made you forget you were supposed to be cautious. She smelled like clove cigarettes and peppermint shampoo.

  "Hey stranger," she said, stepping aside. "I was just about to make tea."

  She had said that yesterday.

  And the day before.

  I followed her into the kitchen, eyes scanning the counter like I’d find a clue tucked behind the sugar jar. She moved gracefully, as always, but something was off. A half-beat delay, maybe. Like her body was a second behind her mind.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  She turned, head tilted. "What do you mean?"

  "I don’t know. You seem... tired."

  She blinked. "You said that yesterday."

  I didn’t say anything.

  Later, we sat in her room with the curtains drawn. She put on music—same mixtape, same track order. I knew the skip in track three before it happened.

  "Do you ever feel like things are... repeating?" I asked.

  Mariah didn’t look up from her notebook. She was doodling the same spiral she always did.

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  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean—" I stopped. Her pen was still moving, but her eyes weren’t. They were fixed. Glazed.

  She was stuck.

  "Mariah?"

  No response.

  The room felt colder. A low hum vibrated in my teeth, like a power line buzzing behind the walls. Then her head jerked slightly, and she looked at me like nothing had happened.

  "What were you saying?"

  "Nothing. It’s fine."

  I left early.

  The sky outside had a weird weight to it. Too many clouds. Not enough wind. I walked home slow, every step deliberate. Testing.

  I passed the corner store where I usually bought smokes. The neon sign buzzed like always. But when I stepped inside, the clerk—same guy as every other night—looked up and said, "You’re early."

  "For what?"

  He shrugged. "You usually come in after dark."

  I didn’t reply. I just bought a pack and stepped back out. But I didn’t light one. Not yet.

  Instead, I walked two blocks in the opposite direction. A street I never took.

  Nothing looked familiar. Not unfamiliar in the way a new neighborhood does—but wrong. Like the trees were mirrored. Like the houses had been assembled from memory without reference. One mailbox was labeled "Placeholder."

  And then, in the window of a parked car, I saw her.

  Seren.

  Not a reflection—an overlay. Her face, layered over mine. Silver eyes staring back.

  "You’re close," she said. "But they’re watching now. Be careful."

  Then she was gone. My own face returned, pale and shaken.

  I stumbled backward. The car was empty. Engine cold.

  I walked home fast after that.

  That night, I dreamed of a hallway lined with mirrors. Each one held a version of me, slightly off. Older. Younger. Injured. Smiling. Crying. But none of them were me. Not really.

  At the end of the hall, Seren waited. She handed me something small. I looked down.

  It was a cigarette, still burning.

  "Light it," she said.

  "Why?"

  "Because in here, smoke leaves trails. You’ll see where the breaks are."

  I woke up with ash on my fingers.

  Mariah called me the next day. Her voice was strange on the line. Slurred, but not sleepy.

  "Come over," she said. "I made tea."

  Same line. Same rhythm.

  I didn’t go.

  Instead, I walked to the school’s old theater, a place I hadn’t been since we snuck in to spray paint the backdrops. I sat center stage in the dark, listening. Waiting.

  And for a second—just one—I heard it.

  Music.

  Not coming from speakers. Not from memory. Real music. Something graceful. A piano melody so precise and full it stopped my heart for a beat. I couldn’t name it. Couldn’t place it.

  But I knew it didn’t belong here.

  I closed my eyes and let it carry me.

  Something was breaking. I could feel it.

  And for the first time since this all began, I didn’t want to fix it.