There is a bench.

  A shoe.

  A shadow without a body.

  And the sound of breathing—but not mine.

  I try to move.

  I’m stuck.

  Not physically. Not really.

  But like when you know you’ve already made a mistake and the moment’s still happening, and you can’t undo it, and you can’t wake up.

  A girl stands at the edge of the street. Her hair’s too dark. Her posture’s wrong. She’s already falling.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Except she hasn’t moved yet.

  Except I’m watching it again.

  Except this isn’t the first time I’ve been here.

  There’s a voice behind me.

  I know it.

  It’s mine. And not mine.

  “You see it, don’t you? The fracture point.”

  No one speaks that way.

  Except in dreams.

  Except in guilt.

  I look down.

  There’s a crack running through the sidewalk, glowing faintly. Pale blue, like moonlight drowned in static. A thread of reality splitting open.

  I blink and it’s gone.

  The girl turns her head.

  And for a second—

  A single second—

  She looks right at me.

  Like she knows.

  Then the sound comes.

  That sound. Again.