The Town That Skipped a Tuesday

The first sign that something was wrong came from the bakery.

Mrs. Harrow always opened her shop on Tuesdays at precisely 6:45 a.m. She was the kind of woman who measured time with the same reverence others reserved for religion. But on this particular morning, the display case still held Monday’s stale pastries, and the bell above the door remained silent. She sat behind the counter, frowning at the clock like it had betrayed her.

“It’s Wednesday,” she muttered when I walked in. “But I never baked for Tuesday.”

The word hit me oddly. Tuesday. It didn’t sound right. I tried to remember what I’d done the day before—but my mind stumbled like a skipped track. I remembered Monday: homework, a burnt grilled cheese, texting my friend Avery. Then… nothing.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Harrow?”

She looked at me, eyes unfocused. “Did yesterday happen?”


---

I stepped out into Main Street and scanned the town.

The florist had Wednesday’s bouquet special on the signboard. The newspaper boy was delivering Wednesday’s paper. The school marquee displayed Upcoming Assembly: Thursday. Everything in Willow Creek moved as if the day in between had dissolved into vapor.

At school, no one seemed bothered.

“Did you feel like we skipped Tuesday?” I asked Avery as we walked to class.

She furrowed her brow. “Tuesday? You mean... yesterday?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t remember it.”

She shrugged. “I guess it just felt... fast?”

That’s when I noticed something strange.

Avery always wore a silver pendant her mom gave her. It was missing.

“You’re not wearing your necklace.”

She blinked, confused. “What necklace?”

The same necklace she talked about every time we walked past the jewelry shop. The one she swore protected her from bad dreams.

“I don’t own a necklace,” she insisted, then turned away before I could press further.


---

At home, things only grew more surreal.

My phone showed a call history gap between Monday 10:14 p.m. and Wednesday 7:09 a.m. No alarms, no social media updates, no battery drain. Like the phone had hibernated for 24 hours.

I asked my dad if anything happened yesterday.

“You mean today?” he said, distractedly flipping through the newspaper. “It’s Wednesday.”

I gave up and climbed to the attic, where my grandmother’s old journals were still boxed up. She was obsessed with "thin places"—moments in time where reality split, like fabric pulled too tight.

One of her entries read:
“Time isn’t always linear. Sometimes it jumps, skips, or doubles back. People forget because memory bends around the missing.”

Chills climbed my spine.


---

That night, I dreamt of Avery standing in the fog.

She wore the silver pendant and whispered, “Don’t forget me again.”

When I woke up, my heart raced. I checked my phone, and the contact labeled “Avery” was gone. Our texts. Our photos. All vanished.

At school, her desk was empty.

No one remembered her name.

Not even the teacher.

I tried to protest, pulling up group photos on my cloud backup. But she wasn’t in any of them now. In a class picture from last week, her outline had been replaced with a potted plant.


---

I ran to the library. The town records. Old yearbooks. Emails.

Nothing.

It was like she’d been deleted.

All except the pendant.

It sat in my locker—cold, real, and heavy. I didn’t remember placing it there. But when I closed my hand around it, a sharp static rushed through me. Images. A voice. Laughter. Her laughter.

Avery was real. Tuesday was real.

And now both were gone.


---

I returned to the attic and opened more of Grandma’s journals. One entry had been circled:

“If a day disappears, something is always lost with it. A person. A moment. A choice. Time is a greedy thing—it does not return what it steals.”

That night, I stood on Main Street with the pendant in my hand. I shouted into the wind, begging the universe to rewind, to bring her back, to give me back the day it took.

But time didn’t answer.

Only the leaves rustled, and the world kept turning.


---

Now, I wear her pendant every day.

Not because I think it’ll bring her back.

But because I’m terrified it’s the only proof she ever existed.

And if another Tuesday disappears, I’ll be ready to remember what the world wants to forget.