The Eighth Morning

I wake up at 6:17 a.m. The radio clicks on by itself three seconds later. The same station. The same song. A soft acoustic thing that sounds like it was written for people who never had to bury anyone.

I don’t look at the clock anymore. I don’t need to. My body knows when the day begins. It always begins the same way.

I lie still and listen to the house breathe. Pipes ticking. The refrigerator is humming. A floorboard popping in the hallway where Laura will stand in exactly forty seconds and ask if I want eggs or cereal. I count anyway. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine...

“Hey,” she says, poking her head in. “Eggs or cereal?”

“Eggs,” I say, because saying cereal doesn’t change anything, and eggs feel closer to being alive.

She smiles the same way every morning. A small, tired smile that pulls more on one side of her mouth. She’s wearing the blue sweater with the loose thread near the cuff. I’ve tried cutting it off. I’ve tried burning the sweater. I’ve tried hiding it. It always comes back. Everything always comes back.

We eat in silence. The radio fills the gaps. Outside, a delivery truck backfires at 6:29 a.m. I flinch. Laura notices. She always does.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Didn’t sleep well,” I say.

It’s true in a way. I haven’t slept well in a very long time. At 6:42 a.m., my phone buzzes. A text from my sister, Emily. Running late. Don’t wait up.

I stare at the message until the words blur. I know exactly where she is. I know exactly what happens to her at 7:11 a.m. I know the sound she makes when metal folds in on itself and her body with it.

I’ve tried warning her. I’ve tried begging. I’ve tried stealing her keys. I’ve tried standing in the road. She always dies anyway.

***

Laura leaves for work at 7:00 a.m. She kisses my cheek, grabs her bag, and reminds me to take out the trash. I watch her walk to the car. I watch her check her mirrors. I watch her drive away. Sometimes she makes it home in the evening. Sometimes she doesn’t. Today, I bet myself she won’t.

I spend the morning doing nothing because nothing matters. I sit on the couch and stare at the dent in the wall from the time I threw a chair. It’s still there. It will always be there.

At 7:11 a.m., my phone rings. I don’t answer it. I already know who it is. At 7:14 a.m., it rings again. I pick up this time. “There’s been an accident,” the voice says, careful and distant, like they’re talking through water. “Are you her brother?”

I say yes. I always say yes.

***

By 8:30 a.m., Emily is dead.

I don’t go to the hospital anymore. I don’t need to see her body again. I don’t need to hear the machines or smell the antiseptic or watch a nurse avoid my eyes. I sit on the couch and wait for the next death.

At 12:03 p.m., my neighbor Mr. Kline knocks on the door. He asks if I’ve seen his dog. I haven’t. The dog will be found later, halfway down the storm drain. Mr. Kline will have a heart attack when he bends down to look.

I tell him no. He thanks me and walks away.

At 12:47 p.m., the sky darkens. Storm clouds roll in fast and low. The wind rattles the windows. I count the seconds between thunderclaps. Three seconds. Too close.

At 1:15 p.m., Laura calls me from work.

“Something feels off today,” she says. “Can you pick me up?”

“Yes,” I say, standing too fast.

I grab my keys. My hands are shaking. This is new. This is different. She doesn’t usually call.

***

I make it halfway to her office before a drunk driver runs a red light and slams into my car. The sound is enormous. Glass explodes. Pain blooms white and total. I die thinking, absurdly, that I forgot to take out the trash.

I wake up at 6:17 a.m. The radio clicks on three seconds later. This time, I scream.

Laura rushes in, panic on her face. She grabs my shoulders, asks what’s wrong, and asks if I’m hurt. I cling to her like a drowning man and sob into the blue sweater.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I tell her.

She laughs softly, confused. “Do what?” I don’t answer.

Over time, I learn the rules. Or what passes for rules. I cannot stop the deaths. I can delay some of them. I can change details. I can make things worse. If I try too hard, the day resets sooner.

If I give up completely, it stretches longer, like it’s teasing me. I stop trying to save people and start trying to understand.

On the forty-third loop, I notice something new. At 6:18 a.m., right after the radio starts, there’s a sound underneath the music. A low, almost electrical hum. It fades if I focus on it too hard.

On the fifty-first loop, I hear a whisper in the hum. Not words. Just a low breath. On the sixty-ninth loop, I realize the whisper is counting. Backward.

***

I start staying awake all night, waiting for morning. The counting gets louder as 6:17 approaches.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

In the morning, I finally understand it, I don’t scream. I sit up calmly and listen.

Three. Two. One. The radio turns on. The hum doesn’t fade this time.

I follow the sound. It leads me to the basement door. We don’t use the basement much. Just storage. Old furniture. Boxes of things we meant to throw away.

Someone locked the door. I break it open with a hammer. The basement smells damp and sweet, like rot covered with perfume. The hum is louder now, vibrating in my teeth.

In the far corner, behind a stack of boxes, there’s a mirror. It’s tall and narrow, its surface cloudy and warped. I don’t remember owning it. My reflection moves a second slower than I do. When it smiles, I don’t.

“I wondered when you’d come down,” it says, using my mouth.

“What are you?” I ask.

It tilts its head, studying me like a bug pinned to cardboard. “I’m what’s left when you refuse to let go.”

***

I remember the night before the first loop. The argument. Emily storming out. Laura crying in the bedroom. The way I sat in the dark, wishing everything would just stop.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I say.

“No,” it agrees. “You asked for yesterday.”

The mirror ripples. Images flash across it. Emily laughing. Laura asleep. Mr. Kline walking his dog. All of them alive. All of them moving on without me.

“You built a cage out of memory,” it says. “And now you live in it.”

“Let them go,” I whisper.

The reflection frowns. “If you do, you won’t be here anymore.”

I think of the trash I never took out. The loose thread on Laura’s sweater. The way Emily texted me every morning, even when she was late.

“I’m already not here,” I say.

The hum rises to a scream. The mirror cracks, a thin line running down the center.

“Last chance,” it says. “Stay. Watch them. It’s all you’re good for.” I step forward. The glass shatters.

***

I wake up at 6:17 a.m. The radio doesn’t turn on. The house is quiet. Too quiet. I check my phone. No texts. No missed calls. The date has changed. Years have passed.

I run outside. The neighborhood is unfamiliar. New cars. New paint. No sign of Mr. Kline’s house. Inside, the walls are bare. The dent is gone.

I sit on the floor and laugh until it hurts. Somewhere far away, people are living and dying without me.

And for the first time, the day moves on.