The Days Without Yesterday
The alarm rang at 6:30. A hand reached out, silenced it. The ceiling above looked different, though it was hard to say how. Perhaps the cracks were thinner. Perhaps the light bent at a new angle. The morning began like any other. A plate slid across the table, the smell of breakfast filling the air. The woman who served it smiled, but her voice was softer, her hair shorter. “You slept well?” she asked, and it felt less like a question than a statement. On the street, the bakery where the tea stall used to be gave off the scent of warm bread. Neighbors waved, speaking of trips not taken, projects not begun, conversations not remembered. Each word dropped into the air as though they belonged to someone else’s story. The body responded politely, though the mind carried no anchor. At work, files blinked on the screen. Lines of writing in his style, ideas that seemed almost familiar — but just out of reach. “Good progress,” a voice said, and a hand patted the shoulder. The day moved...
