he sound of the alarm was always the same—sharp, sterile, and precise.

6:47 AM.

Not 6:45. Not 6:50. Always 6:47.

Eli cracked open one eye. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, like it always did. Dust clung to the edges of its blades. The weak morning light spilled through the half-closed blinds, painting pale bars across his chest. A soft thump echoed from the upstairs apartment—probably Mr. Harrow dropping the same old bowling ball again.

Just like yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.

He sat up slowly, blinking. The same weight pulled on his chest—a strange, indescribable dread he’d long since stopped questioning. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then swung his legs off the bed.

His phone buzzed.

“Don’t forget the milk,” the message read.

Eli frowned.

It was the same message. Word for word. Every day. From a number not in his contacts.

He deleted it. Again.

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. He shuffled to the window, peeled the curtain aside. Down on Oakridge Street, the same red car ran the stop sign. The same dog barked. The same man in a navy coat tripped on the same crack in the sidewalk.

He blinked. The world blinked back.

Then—he looked at the wall beside his bed. The calendar was blank, except for one line in thick, messy ink:

“You’ve been here before.”