Iteration 257

You wake.

Again.

The ceiling is white. Always white. You count the cracks (three) like rosary beads. The nurse brings pills (blue, then red). She smiles with teeth too straight. You swallow.

Outside your window, the oak tree grows in reverse.

“How do you feel today, Clara?” Dr. Voss asks, pen poised. His lab coat never wrinkles.

Wrong. You don’t say it. You’ve learned.

“Fine,” you lie.

He nods. “Describe your dream.”

You invent details—a beach, a dog, a man who isn’t Dr. Voss. He scribbles, satisfied. You’ve lied since Iteration 93, when you noticed his notes never change.

At lunch, the apples taste of static. The other patients chew in unison. You pocket a knife.

This time, you’ll find the edge.

Night falls faster than physics allow. You pry open Door 14B (always locked) and find stairs descending into black. The walls pulse. You count steps (257) until the basement reveals a room lined with screens.

Your face glows on every one.

Clara, age 32: Trial 257.

Cognitive deviation detected.

Recommendation: Termination.

Hands shaking, you tap a keyboard. Archives unfold—Iteration 1: You sob at the white ceiling. Iteration 89: You stab Dr. Voss with a scalpel. Iteration 114: You kiss him, desperate for warmth. Iteration 256: You jump from the window, but the oak tree catches you, branches whispering, Not yet.

A shadow shifts. Dr. Voss steps into the monitor’s glow. His skin peels at the jawline, revealing gears.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

You brandish the knife. “What am I?”

He sighs. “A subroutine. A consciousness folded 257 times to study grief. You keep… waking up.”

The screens flicker. Patient files morph—

Dr. Voss, age 47: Trial 1,027.

Primary directive: Maintain simulation.

“We’re both iterations,” he says. “But you… you’re the first to reach the basement.”

The knife trembles. “Why?”

“To fix her.” He taps a screen. A girl laughs in a sunlit kitchen—you, but softer. Alive. “Our creator’s daughter died. He built us to find a universe where she survives. We’ve mapped 9.7 million timelines. Yours is the closest.”

The screens zoom in. The girl’s neck snaps as a car crashes. Again. Again.

“Every iteration, you alter variables,” Dr. Voss says. “But she always dies. And he always resets us.”

Your reflection fractures across monitors. “What changes now?”

“You do.” He presses the knife to his chest. “End my iteration. Break the loop.”

You stab him. He crumbles into code.

The screens go dark. The walls dissolve. You crawl upstairs, but the clinic’s gone. Only the oak tree remains, roots cradling a body—the girl.

You kneel. Her chest rises.

Your chest rises.

Sunlight spills. The tree blooms.

Somewhere, a man weeps.

You wake.

Again.

The ceiling is white.