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 forward, smooth as glass.

The alarm rang at 6:30. A different room. A softer bed. The window faced another direction, toward a street not known. For a moment, unease rose like a shadow, then slipped away. The morning routine continued as though nothing had shifted.

This time, the face across the table was older, lined by years that had not been there before. The smile was the same, but the weight behind it heavier. “Eat,” she said gently, and the word carried more command than comfort.

Outside, the world rearranged itself. Streets led to places never walked, shops bore names unspoken before. People greeted warmly, asking about events that might have belonged to another life. There was laughter, a shared story, and yet no memory to hold it.

At work, there was no work. A different building, a different task. Co-workers recognized the face, spoke with ease, trusted in bonds invisible. And so the day unfolded.

The alarm rang at 6:30.

Now the bed was narrow. The ceiling high. Walls painted with peeling white. The room smelled faintly of medicine and dust.

Voices outside the door drifted in — strange yet directed toward him, as though he belonged to their circle. A tray was placed in his hands. The taste of food was dull, yet familiar.

Later, on the street, children ran past, shouting names he didn’t know but expected him to answer to. He smiled back, and they returned the smile, satisfied.

By evening, he sat by a window, staring at a skyline he had never seen before. The city’s pulse matched the same rhythm as all the others. The ceiling at night felt closer, as though it were leaning in, listening.

A thought whispered itself before sleep: Tomorrow will make sense. Tomorrow will be better.

The alarm rang at 6:30.

The bed was gone. Only a mat on the floor remained. A small lantern flickered. The air was damp, filled with the smell of earth.

He rose, dressed in clothes not his own, and stepped outside. The world stretched wide and unfamiliar, yet every detail greeted him as though it had always been so. People waved, voices called his name — a name he did not know, but one that fit his skin like it had been worn for years.

The day passed. Another script, another stage. Everyone knew their lines but him. And still, he performed.

That night, the ceiling was made of stars.

He closed his eyes.

The alarm rang at 6:30.

The room was different again, but this time something caught his breath. On the bedside table — no matter the house, the walls, or the life — there was always a clock. Black, with a hairline crack across its face.

It ticked on, unchanged.

For the first time, he remembered.

Not the rooms. Not the people. Not the names. But the clock. Always the same. Always waiting at his side.

And suddenly, the question pressed against his chest like a weight he could not breathe around:

What if the world changes each morning… but I do not?