STILL

She wakes up.

The room is neat—modest walls, pale curtains, quiet. Everything in its place. She slides into her flip-flops and pads across the cool floor to wash her face. Cold water, sharp and real.

She brushes her teeth. Pulls her hair back. Breathes.

Downstairs, she brews her coffee. The familiar drip, the slow hiss. She pours it into the mug she always used—the one with the faded blue rim. She walks to the window.

Outside, sunlight kisses the stones lining the garden. The air buzzes with stillness, yet the flowers dance. On the tree outside, a cluster of crows gathers—a murder, silent and still.

She smiles.

Back upstairs, she dresses for work. Slacks. A white shirt. Her bag waits patiently by the door. She grabs it, fingers tightening around the strap. Pauses.

Looks up.

Like she’s forgotten something.

Her gaze lingers at the ceiling. Nothing there. She exhales. Opens the door—

She wakes up.

The room is neat—modest walls, pale curtains, a quiet hum in the air. Everything in its place.

Again?

She slides into her flip-flops, slower this time. Washes her face. The water is still cold. The toothbrush still smells faintly of mint. Her reflection doesn’t blink.

Downstairs, the coffee brews. The mug is already clean, already waiting. She walks to the window.

Same stillness. Same stones. Same sky. She stares longer.

Upstairs. Clothes. Bag. Door. Ceiling. Sigh.

She opens the door—

She wakes up.

The loop tightens.

Three times. Then four. Now five.

She tracks details. A drop of coffee spills in the second loop. Not in the third. In the fourth, a bird slams into the window and vanishes. In the fifth, nothing makes a sound—not the floorboards, not the water, not even her breath.

She no longer bothers to change clothes.

Each time, she goes to the window.

Each time, the world is calm. Untouched.

Each time, the stones seem... closer.

She counts them.

One, two, three—

In the sixth loop, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t brew coffee. Doesn’t dress.

She just stares outside.

The stones are neatly arranged. Too neat.

The sun sets, tucked behind a cloud.

She presses her forehead to the glass. Her breath doesn’t fog it.

She runs outside barefoot, feet pounding the grass.

The moment she steps past the threshold—

She wakes up.

But something’s different.

This time, the air is heavy. The window has no view.

Just darkness.

No birds. No flowers.

Only silence.

She doesn’t brew coffee. She doesn’t get dressed. She walks to the door with shaking hands.

Opens it.

There’s no hallway. Only stone.

Above her, a name. Hers, she believes.

Beloved daughter. Gone too soon.

She stumbles back, breath caught, hands trembling.

The loops weren’t routine.

That’s why they felt off.

Her morning wasn’t her life.

It was her afterlife.

The tidy room?

A coffin.

The flowers?

Memorials.

The stones?

Gravestones.

She wasn’t living her day.

She was remembering it.

Over and over.

Until she remembered the truth.

She never made it to work.

---