Arthur knew before his eyes opened that the sky outside would be a soft, unyielding grey. He didn't need to check. He didn't need to move. He could feel it in the weight of the air, in the way the world held its breath. The exact same way it had hundreds—maybe thousands—of times before.
The hum of silence blanketed his childhood bedroom. Not the silence of peace, but the kind that came with knowing exactly what would happen next. The moment was always the same: a bird would chirp outside his window at 7:03 AM. His mother's lavender potpourri would waft in faintly from the hallway, stirred by the gentle creak of floorboards as someone moved in the house. And then—
Chirp.
Arthur opened his eyes.
The dull ache behind them reminded him that he hadn't slept—not really. Not in any way that mattered. Sleep inside the loop was a formality. Just one more thing the day demanded of him before cycling again.
He turned over, reaching for the phone on his nightstand. The cracked screen lit up.
October 23rd, 2008.
Always. Unchanging. Eternal.
A laugh tried to escape his throat, but it came out brittle, hollow. There was no room for surprise anymore. Only resignation. Only the deep, bone-weary awareness that he would have to live through it all again.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with calloused hands. The old quilt slid off his shoulders, exactly the way it always did. The house creaked in the same familiar rhythms. The walls had become his prison, the paint and furniture silent witnesses to his unraveling.
He used to cry. He used to scream and throw things. He used to beg the universe to stop. But now?
Now he just got up.
He padded barefoot to the window and drew the curtain back a few inches. The sky outside was a sheet of pale silver, like it had forgotten how to be blue. Down below, the maple tree swayed slightly in the breeze, leaves burnt orange and amber clinging stubbornly to their branches. That tree would lose half its leaves tomorrow. He knew that too.
Because tomorrow, the world would end. Again.
Except it wouldn't feel like the end. It would just feel like the worst moment of Arthur's life being ground into his soul like a cigarette into ash. Every detail replayed. Every reaction memorized. Every scream echoing in his mind long after the call had ended.
His phone would ring at 4:18 PM. His parents' car would be crumpled under the bulk of a semi-truck. There would be rain. There would be skid marks. There would be silence.
And then—he would wake up again. In this room. On this bed. To the same chirp.
Arthur turned away from the window and went to the bathroom, brushing his teeth with mechanical precision. He didn't even need to look in the mirror anymore. He knew the man staring back: twenty-two, eyes hollow, face aging despite time refusing to move.
By the time he made it downstairs, the kitchen smelled of toast and freshly brewed coffee. His mother stood by the counter, humming to herself, the sound light and soothing. His father's chair creaked as he leaned back to sip from a chipped mug.
Arthur froze in the doorway.
This was the worst part. Every time.
They were alive. They were vibrant. They were so wonderfully, painfully normal.
"Morning, honey!" his mom said, offering a warm smile. "We let you sleep in a bit—figured you needed the rest."
Arthur swallowed the lump rising in his throat. He couldn't tell them. He'd told them before. Screamed it, whispered it, wept it. It never mattered.
He forced a smile. "Morning."
He sat at the table. His father slid a plate of toast toward him.
"You still heading back to campus tomorrow?" his dad asked. "Or staying another day?"
Arthur stared at him. Tomorrow. That word had become a loaded gun aimed directly at his heart.
"I haven't decided," he said softly.
"Well, we'll be gone most of the day anyway," his mom said, wiping her hands on a towel. "That conference up north. We'll be back late."
Arthur didn't answer. He just sat there, memorizing every line of their faces, the way the morning light hit the kitchen tiles, the way the mug steamed in his dad's hand. He didn't need to memorize it anymore—but he did, because someday, somehow, he had to find a way to make this moment last.
To break the cycle.
To save them.