“When the Sky Opened Like a Curtain”

When the Sky Opened Like a Curtain

Every night, at exactly 3:33 AM, the sky above Marrow Creek opened like a curtain.

It didn’t tear or flash or make a sound. It simply parted, as if the heavens themselves were stage drapes drawn by unseen hands. Behind them shimmered another world — faint at first, like light behind frosted glass, but brightening until the stars themselves seemed embarrassed to shine beside it.

The first time it happened, people thought it was a trick of the eyes — some rare atmospheric event, maybe a new kind of aurora. The news called it a reflection anomaly. Scientists drove in from all over the state, but their instruments failed at 3:33 every morning, cameras freezing, batteries dying, recordings turning to static.

The only thing that never failed was the human eye.

And what the eye saw — that was harder to explain.

Behind the parted sky, there was… another town.

A perfect mirror of Marrow Creek.

Same streets. Same houses. Same river cutting through the woods. Only different in tiny, unnerving ways. The church steeple leaned left instead of right. The clock tower read midnight even when it was three thirty-three. The grocery store sign, “Harlan’s Market,” read “Marlen’s Harket.”

And sometimes, if you stared long enough, you’d see people walking there — shadows of your neighbors, your family, even yourself.

The phenomenon became a ritual. By the third week, half the town was staying up late to watch the sky unfold. Kids brought blankets to the hill near the water tower. Couples held hands, whispering guesses. The mayor called it “the Marrow Curtain.” Local businesses sold coffee with that name printed on the cups. Tourists came with cameras, all of which died at 3:33 on the dot.

No one could capture it. Only witness it.

And for a while, that was enough.

But then, people began to change.

It started with old Mrs. Harding, who said she saw her dead husband waving from the other side. She claimed he mouthed her name, told her to come home. The next night, she disappeared. Her front door was open, her slippers left by the threshold, and the police found footprints in the frost — leading toward the meadow where the sky always opened.

They never found her.

Then came Thomas Boyd, the high school math teacher. He swore he saw another version of himself in the sky — younger, cleaner, happier. The next morning, he smashed every mirror in his house. By the weekend, he was gone too. His wife said she woke up at 3:33 and saw him standing outside, arms outstretched toward the glowing sky, whispering, “Let me in.”

After that, people stopped watching.

The Marrow Curtain wasn’t a curiosity anymore. It was a haunting.

I didn’t believe any of it, of course. I was seventeen, and seventeen-year-olds are good at pretending nothing is real until it hurts. My dad told me not to look. He’d tape black paper over the windows, muttering about “things that shouldn’t be seen.”

But curiosity is a louder voice than fear.

So one night, I waited.

3:31. 3:32.

And then, right on time — the sky breathed open.

It was beautiful. Impossible.

Colors that didn’t exist anywhere else — blues that felt like sound, gold that hummed beneath the skin. And there it was: the mirror Marrow Creek. Only this time, the lights were brighter. The air seemed warmer.

And then I saw her.

Me.

Standing on the same hill, same hoodie, same messy hair. But she wasn’t alone. She was surrounded by people — smiling, laughing. My mother was there too, alive and well. In this world, she hadn’t died in the car crash last year. My other self looked happy, lighter, whole.

My breath caught.

She saw me too. I know she did. Because she smiled. Then she raised her hand — and reached out, as if she could touch me through the shimmering divide.

Without thinking, I reached back.

And for a heartbeat — a single heartbeat — the air rippled.

I felt warmth against my fingertips.

Then I heard a voice. My voice. Whispering from beyond the veil:

"It’s better here."

I stumbled backward, breaking the connection. The sky shuddered, folded back into darkness, and the world was silent again.

The next morning, my father asked why my hand was burned.

I told him the truth. He didn’t believe me. He packed up our things that day, said we were leaving town before “the curtain took another one of us.” But as he loaded the car, I stood on the porch, staring at the empty morning sky.

I could still feel her hand in mine — the warmth, the pull.

And I wondered what it would be like, on the other side.

A world where my mother was alive. Where grief didn’t cling to every room. Where the sky didn’t feel like a lid.

It’s been three years since we left Marrow Creek.

But sometimes, when I wake in the middle of the night — 3:33 on the clock, every time — I see a faint shimmer in the window. Like a reflection that doesn’t quite match. And behind it, that other world, still waiting.

Maybe one night, I’ll go back.

Maybe one night, the sky will open again —

and this time, I won’t stop reaching.