Evan Cross hadn’t slept in three days—or maybe he had, but just didn’t remember waking up. Time had become something of a suggestion lately, a fog-draped blur where clocks ticked backward and shadows whispered in familiar voices.
He sat in his apartment’s living room, staring at the peeling wallpaper. Sometimes the patterns moved. Sometimes they didn’t. He never knew which version to trust anymore.
The First Cracks in Reality
It had started innocently enough—recurring dreams that felt too vivid to ignore. In them, Evan was back in his childhood home, standing in front of the old grandfather clock that hadn’t worked in years. The clock’s hands spun endlessly while his mother, who’d passed away a decade ago, hummed the same lullaby she used to sing when he couldn’t sleep.
“Wake up, sweetheart,” she would whisper. “You’ll be late.”
For what, she never said.
At first, Evan brushed it off. Just stress, he told himself. His deadlines at the architectural firm were piling up, and his caffeine intake was outrageous. But soon, he began waking up in places he didn’t remember going to—his office at midnight, the park at dawn, once even standing barefoot on the street outside his apartment. He couldn’t tell whether he’d sleepwalked there or dreamed it.
His therapist, Dr. Lang, said it sounded like parasomnia. “A boundary issue between sleep and wakefulness,” she explained in that slow, clinical voice.
But Evan wasn’t so sure. Because sometimes, he’d feel a presence standing behind him even when he was wide awake.
The Dream Girl Who Knew Too Much
One night—or maybe morning—Evan met her.
Her name was Iris. She had dark curls, mismatched eyes, and the kind of smile that made you forget your own name.
“You’ve been looking for me,” she said.
“I don’t even know who you are,” Evan replied, though the moment he said it, the words felt wrong—like a lie he’d already told a thousand times.
They met again the next night. And the next. Always in the same dreamlike world—a city washed in silver moonlight, where buildings hummed and rivers flowed backward. She took his hand and guided him through it, whispering secrets he could never remember once he woke.
But he began noticing strange details. Sometimes, Iris mentioned things from his waking life—like the new project he was working on or the fight he’d had with his boss. Once, she told him about a conversation he hadn’t yet had but would the next day, word for word.
It scared him. Yet, he couldn’t stop seeing her.
Soon, he stopped trying to wake up.
The Vanishing Hours
Days began slipping through his fingers like water.
He’d wake up to find his sketches already completed, his fridge empty though he didn’t remember eating, and his phone filled with unread messages from friends asking if he was okay.
He wasn’t. But saying it out loud felt useless.
The strangest part was the clock. The same grandfather clock from his dreams had appeared in his apartment one morning. He couldn’t remember buying it, and the delivery company had no record of any purchase.
It stood in the corner, silent at first—until it began to tick.
Each time it did, Evan felt something shift inside him. A strange pulse, like his heartbeat syncing to its rhythm. And when it chimed, reality seemed to wobble. Walls breathed. The floor rippled. His reflection in the mirror blinked out of sync with him.
He started keeping notes—frantic scrawls on scraps of paper:
If you’re reading this, you’re awake.
Check the clock before you trust anything.
Iris is real.
But the handwriting kept changing.
Dr. Lang’s Concern
When Evan showed up at Dr. Lang’s office, she looked alarmed.
“You missed our last three sessions,” she said gently. “You don’t remember?”
“I thought I came every day.”
She frowned. “You haven’t. You’ve been sending me emails, though. Very… strange ones.”
“I don’t remember writing any emails.”
She leaned forward. “Evan, you need rest. Your brain is collapsing the barrier between dream and waking states. You’re not processing reality correctly.”
He rubbed his temples. “What if I’m not supposed to? What if both are real?”
Dr. Lang’s voice softened. “Then you need to choose one, Evan. Otherwise, you’ll lose both.”
Her words echoed in his head long after he left the office.
The Dream That Bled Into Daylight
That night, the line shattered completely.
Evan woke—or dreamed he woke—to the sound of the grandfather clock chiming thirteen times. Iris stood in his doorway, glowing faintly as if lit from within.
“You’re almost ready,” she said.
“For what?”
“To remember.”
The room melted. The walls turned to mist. He saw flashes—his mother’s face, the ticking clock, Dr. Lang’s office dissolving into smoke.
And then—an image so sharp it cut him. A hospital bed. Electrodes. A doctor’s voice saying, “He’s been in a coma for six months.”
He stumbled backward, clutching his chest. “No… that’s not real.”
Iris looked at him sadly. “Neither is this.”
He screamed as the world cracked open like glass.
The Truth Under the Glass
Evan opened his eyes to white light. Machines hummed. His throat burned. A nurse gasped and shouted for help.
He was in a hospital.
Dr. Lang—no, someone who looked like her—rushed in with a team of doctors. “Mr. Cross? Can you hear me?”
He tried to speak, but only a rasp came out.
They explained everything: he’d been in a car accident six months ago. Severe head trauma. He’d been unconscious ever since.
But Evan didn’t believe them. Because on the bedside table sat a single object: a tiny brass clock. Its hands spun endlessly.
And when no one was looking, he heard a whisper from somewhere inside it.
“Wake up, sweetheart. You’ll be late.”
The Second Awakening
A month later, they discharged him. His motor functions were slow, his memory patchy. But he was alive. That should’ve been enough.
Yet, at night, he still dreamed of Iris. Sometimes she was standing across the street. Sometimes in the reflection of the window. Always watching. Always waiting.
He began doubting the hospital story. No one mentioned a crash site. No one could explain the sketches of the silver city that filled his apartment—sketches he didn’t remember making.
He went to see Dr. Lang again, but her office was empty. The building had been abandoned for years, the landlord said.
Evan laughed. Too loudly. “Yeah, figures.”
When he got home, the grandfather clock was waiting for him again.
The Endless Loop
He sat in front of it for hours, tracing the carvings on its wooden frame. “What are you?” he whispered.
The clock ticked once.
And then Iris’s voice floated through the air, soft and familiar. “You already know.”
He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was back in the silver city. Iris stood beside him, smiling like nothing had changed.
“Was any of it real?” he asked.
She touched his face. “Does it matter?”
He wanted to argue, but words felt useless. The air shimmered with starlight. Somewhere in the distance, the clock chimed again.
Epilogue: The Observer
Weeks later, a nurse at the hospital checked on Room 317. Evan Cross’s body was still there—motionless, hooked up to machines. His brain scans showed flickers of activity, bursts of light that no one could explain.
The doctors said it was meaningless—just random neuron firing.
But the nurse swore she sometimes heard humming from the room. A lullaby.
And once, when she leaned close, she could’ve sworn she heard a whisper.
“Don’t wake him. He’s almost ready.”
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