THE SIREN THAT NEVER STOPS

The siren began on a Tuesday at 9:17 a.m.

It was a clean, mechanical sound; steady, mid-pitched, not urgent enough to demand panic but too present to ignore. It rose above the hum of traffic and threaded itself through open office windows, bakery doors, classroom vents.

By 9:19, it was still going.

By 9:45, it had not wavered once.

At 10:00, the morning meeting began as scheduled.

...

“We’ll start with quarterly projections,” Mr. Hara said, adjusting his glasses as the siren poured through the conference room walls like water through thin fabric.

No one mentioned it.

Mina sat at the end of the table, pen hovering above her notebook. The sound pressed against her skull, a constant electric line. She waited for someone, anyone to tilt their head, to wince, to ask the obvious.

Nothing.

Kenji coughed politely. “If we look at the August figures…”

The siren continued, unwavering, as if it had no need to breathe.

Mina raised her hand halfway, then lowered it. She wrote instead:

Siren?

The word looked small on the page. Embarrassed.

When the meeting ended, chairs slid back in their usual rhythm. People chatted about lunch.

“Udon today?” Kenji asked.

“Too humid,” someone replied. “Cold soba.”

The siren accompanied them down the hallway.

...

Outside, the street functioned perfectly.

Cyclists navigated around pedestrians. A delivery truck idled by the curb. A mother knelt to tie her child’s shoelace.

The siren saturated everything, flattening the air.

Mina stepped onto the sidewalk and finally allowed herself to look up. The sky was blue. Indifferent.

She approached the coffee stand where she stopped every morning.

“Busy day?” she asked the barista, Yui.

“Always,” Yui said brightly. “The usual?”

“Yes. And, ” Mina hesitated. “Do you know where the siren is coming from?”

Yui blinked once, slow and thoughtful, as if Mina had asked about the origin of cinnamon.

“It’s part of the atmosphere,” she said.

“The atmosphere.”

“Makes things feel official.” Yui handed her the cup. “That’ll be 480 yen.”

The siren did not modulate. It did not pulse. It simply existed.

Mina paid.

...

By Wednesday, the siren had not stopped.

Sleep had been a thin imitation of itself. The sound threaded through her dreams, stitching them tight and bright. In the morning, she felt as though she had not closed her eyes at all.

On the train, commuters swayed gently, faces lit by their phones. The siren traveled with them, through tunnels, under bridges.

A man across from her read a paperback with serene focus.

“Excuse me,” Mina said before she could stop herself. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

He looked up, polite. “Pardon?”

“The siren.”

He listened, tilting his head slightly.

“Oh,” he said. “That.”

“Yes. That.”

“It’s been there since yesterday.”

“I know.”

He nodded, satisfied. “These things happen.”

“What things?”

He returned to his book. “City things.”

The train rattled on.

At the office, someone had placed a small potted plant near the entrance. Its leaves drooped, edges curling inward as if trying to escape the air.

“Looks thirsty,” Mina said.

“It’s adapting,” Kenji replied.

“To what?”

He smiled, patient. “To the new normal.”

The phrase slid into the room and settled there, as stable as furniture.

New normal.

The siren pressed on.

...

On Thursday, birds began to fall.

It was subtle at first. A sparrow dropped onto the pavement near the convenience store, landing on its side like a misplaced leaf.

No one screamed.

A woman stepped around it, careful not to scuff her heel. The store clerk continued arranging onigiri in neat triangular rows.

By noon, there were six birds along Mina’s usual route. Their small bodies were arranged with accidental symmetry, wings half-open, eyes like black beads.

She crouched beside one.

Its chest did not rise.

Behind her, a teenager laughed into his phone. “Yeah, I’m coming. Just grabbing a drink.”

Mina stood and walked into the store.

“Are you going to do something about the birds?” she asked the clerk.

He followed her gaze through the glass.

“They’ll be collected,” he said.

“When?”

“In due time.”

“But they’re...”

“Part of the atmosphere,” he said gently, as if reminding her of a dress code.

She bought a bottle of water she didn’t want.

...

By Friday, the siren had acquired a texture.

It felt granular now, as though it were made of countless tiny teeth. It vibrated in her molars.

At lunch, the team celebrated a promotion.

“To stability,” Mr. Hara said, raising his glass.

“To stability,” they echoed.

The restaurant windows trembled faintly with the sound. A crack zigzagged along the corner of one pane, thin as a drawn breath.

Mina stared at it.

“Doesn’t that concern you?” she asked no one in particular.

“What?” Kenji said, chewing.

“The window.”

“It’s holding.”

The crack lengthened, almost imperceptibly.

“Everything is holding,” Mr. Hara said, pleased. “That’s what matters.”

...

The siren threaded through the toast.

On Saturday morning, Mina woke to silence.

The absence was so abrupt it felt like a blow.

She sat up, heart racing. The room was thick with quiet. No mechanical hum. No electric line.

For a moment, relief flooded her, warm and dizzying.

Then she noticed the vibration.

It was not in the air anymore.

It was inside her.

A faint, steady tone, lodged somewhere behind her eyes.

She pressed her palms to her ears.

It remained.

Outside, the city moved as usual. People crossed streets. Shop shutters rolled up. Somewhere, a child cried and was soothed.

She stepped onto her balcony.

The sky was gray now, low and close. A single bird lay on the roof of the building across from hers.

The siren, if it was still that continued within her skull.

Down on the street, Yui from the coffee stand waved when she saw Mina.

“Beautiful morning!” Yui called.

“Is it?” Mina shouted back.

Yui tilted her head. “Of course.”

Mina leaned over the railing. “Do you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

The question hung between them.

Mina opened her mouth.

The vibration intensified, bright and sharp, as if warning her against translation.

“Hear what?” Yui repeated, still smiling.

Mina swallowed.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Good,” Yui replied, satisfied.

A delivery truck reversed with a soft beep-beep-beep, perfectly ordinary. A cyclist rang his bell. Someone laughed.

The city’s sounds filled the space where the siren had been, layering themselves neatly, convincingly.

Mina stepped back into her apartment.

The vibration remained, steady and precise.

She brushed her teeth. She showered. She dressed.

In the mirror, her face looked almost unchanged.

Perhaps a little paler.

She practiced a smile.

It fit.

On the street, she joined the flow of pedestrians. The rhythm of footsteps, the murmur of conversation, the shuffle of daily life - all of it synchronized around her.

The vibration hummed, constant and private.

Kenji texted: Coffee later?

She typed back: Sure.

As she walked, she passed the spot where the first sparrow had fallen.

The pavement was clean.

Above her, the sky pressed low and patient.

No one looked up.

No one asked.

Mina adjusted her pace to match the others.

Everything seemed normal.

(udon and soba are very common food in Japan).

Udon (like pasta but thicker)

...

Soba (instant noodles kinda)