Today is the day I’m supposed to die.
11:04 PM.
I’ve been staring at that time on my phone like it’s a ticking bomb, constantly pulsing in the corner of my vision. Every second that passes feels like borrowed time—like I’m squatting in a story that’s already been written, scribbling in the margins as the last page inches closer.
But this morning, something strange happened.
I woke up with dirt under my fingernails.
Not dust. Not grime. Actual soil. Damp and embedded deep into the creases of my skin, like I’d been digging through the earth in my sleep. The thing is—I hadn’t gone outside since the night before. I was inside the whole time. I remember brushing my teeth. I remember reading the note Elara dropped off. I remember lying in bed and shutting my eyes.
So then how do I explain what I found in my jacket pocket?
A torn piece of an old bus ticket.
Destination: Berlin Hauptbahnhof.
Departure Date: January 18, 2023.
Worn ink. Faded edges.
Here’s the problem: I’ve never been to Berlin. At least, I don’t think I have. I keep saying that. But now… now I’m not so sure that’s ever been true.
In a kind of panic, I started digging through my backup drives—everything I’ve archived digitally for years. Notes, journal entries, audio logs, photos I thought I’d never need again. I didn’t even know what I was hoping to find—proof I wasn’t losing my grip? Some confirmation that my memories actually belong to me?
That’s when I stumbled on something I can’t explain.
A folder titled: /ReEntry_Logs
Last Modified: Three Days Ago.
I didn’t create it. I don’t remember opening it. But it was there.
Inside were dozens of audio files. Each one labeled with a precise timestamp, like part of some system. Some of the names were chilling:
- ENTRY_43_RECALL_02: “You Must Choose The Right Self.“
- ENTRY_44_RECALL_03: “She Wasn’t Meant To Come Back.“
- ENTRY_45_TERMINATION_LOOP: “You’re The Constant.“
I clicked one.
A low, mechanical hum filled my speakers—deep, unsettling, like the vibration of something not entirely part of this world. Then I heard a voice.
It was mine.
“This is version 45. If you’re hearing this, it means the loop has restarted again. Elara’s memory has partially bled through. That’s new. It means she’s adapting. Means we’re running out of resets.”
Silence.
Then:
“You chose this. You thought it would be better to forget. But forgetting doesn’t make you innocent. The code is buried in the metronome.”
End of file.
Instant. Cold. Silence.
I felt a chill crawl down my spine.
I own a metronome. Elara gave it to me in college, back when she was composing music. It’s been sitting on my bookshelf ever since—silent, untouched.
I grabbed it. Flipped it over. Inspected every inch. At first, nothing.
But then I removed the bottom panel.
Inside was a folded metal strip—triangular, razor-thin, unnaturally smooth. Titanium alloy, by the look of it. And etched across its surface was microscopic circuitry. Something not built for performance… but for memory.
I connected it to a USB adapter and ran it through my decryption software. It took two hours to crack the compression. When it finally opened, I wasn’t looking at a sound file. Or even a video.
It was a schematic.
But not of a machine.
Of a timeline.
A map of possibilities. Branches. Nodes. Cross-sections. Events marked with single letters:
E for Entry.
R for Recall.
T for Termination.
One path circled in red bore the initials: E.A.
Another, traced in black ink: M.R.
Elara.
Me.
I couldn’t breathe. I sat down and just stared.
We didn’t fall into the loop.
We created it.
This isn’t fate. It’s fallout.
Whatever we were trying to build—it broke. And badly. Elara remembered too much. I remembered too little. And time, it seems, is trying to clean up the mess we made—reset by reset, version by version, trying to find the one that works.
And this version? Me, right now?
I’m scheduled for deletion.
Today. At 11:04 PM.
It’s now 10:53 AM.
Less than 13 hours left, if the death photo was right. If this loop follows the same pattern.
But here’s the part that matters.
This version of me knows.
And I’m not going quietly.
Final note for myself today, in case I don’t make it past 11:05 PM:
—know this:
There’s a version of me out there that already broke the loop.
And he’s watching us all.
—
What do you think happens next?
Does this version of me survive? Does Elara become more than memory? What happens if someone outside the loop finds the blueprint?
Drop your thoughts and theories in the comments—I need to hear them.
Maybe one of you has already been here too.
Maybe one of you remembers more than you’re supposed to.
To be continued…
Rise Between Realities 
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