Clocks.
They ticked like executioners,
patiently counting down a sentence no one had the courage to read aloud.
Quiet.
Relentless.
Emotionless.
The sound of seconds bleeding into minutes filled the apartment —
a low, inevitable drumbeat that seemed louder than a scream.
Sam sat in the kitchen.
His elbows rested heavily on his knees, his back curved as if the air itself weighed him down.
The room around him was dim — not with the darkness of night, but with something heavier.
A tired kind of light.
Winter light.
Cold, gray, and thin, leaking through the half-closed curtains like a ghost.
Nothing moved.
Nothing dared.
Only the clocks.
Only the silence.
A candle sat abandoned on the table, nothing more than a misshapen stump.
It had burned out without anyone noticing.
Without anyone caring.
The faint scent of wax still lingered, mixing with the stale, heavy air.
Two cups sat on the table.
His — empty.
The other — untouched.
It had gathered a faint film of dust.
As if the world had politely tried to forget it ever mattered.
Sam stared at them for a long time.
The way a man might stare at headstones.
He ran a finger along the edge of the table, tracing shallow scars carved into the wood.
Tiny pen marks.
Little sketches and doodles.
A smiling sun.
A crooked heart.
Initials.
Drawn by a hand that once called this place home.
He had never wiped them away.
Couldn't.
The curtain shifted slightly in a whisper of wind, its shadow sliding lazily across the floorboards —
the only thing in the room that seemed to remember how to move.
Time hadn't stopped here.
It had simply… moved on without him.
***
A memory.
Bright. Blinding in its simplicity.
"Just one more minute, bro…"
"You said that ten minutes ago."
"Then make it eleven!"
Laughter.
Real and reckless — the kind that made the walls feel smaller, safer.
Bare feet thudding across cracked linoleum.
The smell of sweet tea steeping in the kitchen.
A girl in an oversized, worn-out T-shirt — his T-shirt.
Sleeves swallowed her arms.
Her hair a mess of tangles and static.
Eyes too bright for a world this cold.
He had wanted to take a picture.
Wanted to capture it.
But he had hesitated.
Felt shy.
Thought:
"There's always time."
***
Sam exhaled.
A hollow sound — like wind rattling through an empty house.
His chest ached as he stood, joints creaking like an old door trying to forget how it once swung open so easily.
He crossed the room slowly.
Deliberately.
Every step felt final.
At the door, he hesitated.
Not because he wanted to stay —
but because he hated the idea of leaving something behind again.
He reached for his coat.
Heavy. Familiar.
In the mirror by the door, he caught his reflection.
Not to fix his hair.
Not to adjust his clothes.
Just to check.
Was he still there?
Was there still a man behind those eyes — or just a memory dressed in skin?
The calendar lay on the table, half-buried under unopened mail.
One date circled.
A single, crude cross slashed through it.
Today.
Sam stared at it for a moment that stretched too long.
Then leaned down, his forehead almost brushing the page, and whispered:
"Anniversary… I'm sorry.
But I can't anymore."
***
The door clicked shut behind him with a softness that felt cruel.
He walked.
Through streets that didn't remember him.
Past faces that didn't see him.
Across a city that had never once slowed down to grieve.
Gray buildings stretched upward like gravestones.
Tires hissed on wet asphalt.
Conversations floated by — words without meaning.
The world didn't stop for broken things.
And it wouldn't start again for him.
He reached the bridge.
It stood there — solemn and unremarkable.
Its metal bones groaning faintly against the wind.
The river below churned with the color of rust and oil.
Ugly.
Indifferent.
The sky above was not angry.
It wasn't mourning.
It was simply… there.
Unfeeling.
Unmoved.
Sam stepped to the edge.
The stone was cold beneath his fingers.
Smooth from the passage of hands that had made this choice before him.
He looked down.
The fall wasn't long.
Not really.
A few seconds, maybe.
But sometimes, that's all it took to erase a lifetime.
He didn't pray.
Didn't curse.
He just whispered:
"I'm sorry…"
The words were carried off by the wind, lost before they could reach any god that might have cared.
***
A step.
Empty air.
A falling world.
And then —
Light.
Not bright.
Not welcoming.
A terrible, impossible light.
A rupture in the air.
The bridge dissolved into white.
The city fell away.
The clocks went silent.
And somewhere, in that impossible space between seconds,
between heartbeats,
between endings and beginnings —
Sam fell into another world.
And nothing would ever be the same.