Ethan Hale's Tuesday began the way all forgettable days do: with coffee, cold light, and a phone screen far too bright for 7:12 a.m.
He blinked against the artificial glare as his thumb automatically flicked through notifications.
Weather: sunny, high of 72.
Calendar: completely empty.
Group chat: unread messages—zero.
There was a comfort in the sameness of it all. Or maybe just numbness. Morning routines had long since blurred into ritual, and Ethan didn't feel awake so much as simulated—mimicking life in a world that asked for just enough presence to function, but not enough to feel.
He scrolled further. Headlines. Memes. Some ad for ergonomic desk chairs. A Reddit post about sleep paralysis. Something about brain fog and screen addiction. His eyes glazed over. Thumb down. Autopilot mode engaged.
Then he saw it.
A headline. Simple, centered, and somehow louder than the rest.
OBITUARY: Ethan Hale (Age 29) – A Kind Soul Gone Too Soon.
He stopped breathing.
There was a photo beside the text. His photo. One of the few he knew had ever been uploaded online, probably taken years ago. He recognized the faintly forced smile. The way the collar on his shirt never sat right. The strained look around the eyes, like even the camera made him tired.
"Ethan passed away peacefully in his sleep on April 17th. He is survived by…"
The words blurred.
He stared at the screen for a full three seconds, a thin buzzing rising in his ears. His fingers had gone cold, still clutching the phone. The air in the room felt too thick, the way it sometimes did right before a migraine.
Then his thumb twitched.
The article scrolled away.
"Wait—"
He jerked his hand, scrolling back up. The motion was sudden, sharp. Too much momentum. He swiped again, slower.
But it was gone.
The obituary was nowhere on the feed. In its place: a tweet about daylight saving time. A video of someone making pancakes shaped like famous philosophers. He scrolled further, faster. Nothing.
He checked his browser history. Reddit. A half-read article about lucid dreaming. An online grocery cart he'd abandoned two days ago. No obituary. No sign he'd ever read one.
He laughed—once—short and sharp. The sound startled him. It didn't feel like it had come from his throat.
"Jesus. Probably a glitch," he muttered. "Some weird ad targeting screw-up."
He tried to believe that. Maybe some badly-coded algorithm scraping names and search histories, spitting out mock obituaries for clicks. Or a sick joke someone was testing. But a tightness had settled in his chest, just beneath the ribs—like the moment before a car crash, when you know something is wrong but haven't quite felt the impact yet.
He set the phone down and walked to the bathroom, dragging his hand down his face like it could wipe away the creeping unease.
The sink sputtered once before water spilled into the basin. He splashed his face—once, twice. The cold helped. Grounded him, at least physically.
He looked up.
And froze.
His reflection wasn't moving.
Not immediately. Not like it should have.
He stood perfectly still, staring. The mirror-Ethan stared back. But it was wrong. There had been a delay. A sliver of a second, but enough.
He raised his hand. Slowly.
The reflection copied him—late again. Just a beat. Just enough to be impossible.
A chill ran up his spine.
He stepped back from the mirror. "Okay," he whispered. "That's… not normal."
His phone buzzed from the bedroom. The sound was sharp in the silence.
He returned to find a message waiting.
Dylan:
You okay?
He frowned at the screen. Dylan never texted this early. Not without context.
His thumbs hovered, uncertain.
Ethan (typing):
Fine. Weird dream, that's all.
The reply bubble didn't appear. The message sat there, unanswered.
Ethan stared at it, then looked back toward the mirror.
He dressed slowly, trying to push the anxiety aside. He needed air. Motion. Something real. The walls of his apartment were starting to feel too smooth, like scenery in a dream.
In the hallway, everything looked normal. Dingy carpet. Old exit signs. The faint scent of curry wafting from somewhere—it was always curry.
But when he reached the elevator, he stopped short.
The button was blinking.
Both Up and Down. At the same time.
He pressed the stairs instead.
He descended two floors in silence. The building was quiet this time of morning, and the concrete stairwell echoed faintly with each footstep.
On the second landing, he passed Mrs. Lambert from 3B. She smiled warmly, as she always did, clutching a plastic bag of what looked like oranges.
"Morning, Evan."
He paused. "Sorry—Ethan."
She blinked. "That's what I said."
"No… you said Evan."
She smiled again, more distantly this time, and kept walking.
Ethan stood there for a moment, stunned.
Maybe I misheard her, he thought. But even as he tried to convince himself, he felt the truth clawing underneath.
Downstairs, the old newspaper box stood cracked open. A bold headline stared up from inside:
LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD IN DREAMLIKE SCENE.
No name. No photo. But it set off the same cold thrum in his chest as the obituary.
He didn't pick it up.
Outside, the morning looked ordinary. Blue sky. Passing cars. Pedestrians scrolling through phones or tugging leashes. But everything felt… paused. Like the world was a video frame waiting to resume.
He pushed open the door to the coffee shop on the corner. The familiar chime rang out, and the barista looked up from behind the counter.
"Hey, welcome back! The usual, Elijah?"
Ethan blinked. "Ethan."
The barista smiled sheepishly, already pouring espresso. "Right. Ethan. Sorry, dude."
He took his drink without saying more and sat by the window, trying to ground himself.
Five things you can see, he told himself. Four you can touch. Three you can hear. A mindfulness trick his therapist had once recommended.
Window. Table. Cup. Tree. Woman outside walking her dog.
The table's woodgrain beneath his fingers. The ceramic of the mug. The cold metal of the chair. The paper sleeve on the cup.
Chatter. The milk steamer. The faint whir of traffic.
It didn't help.
Because across the street—
He saw himself.
Same coat. Same face. Same expression—wide eyes, disbelief curling at the edges.
The other Ethan was staring right at him.
Their gazes locked across the glass and distance.
Then, without a word…
The other Ethan turned.
And walked away.
The ceramic mug slipped from his hand. It hit the table's edge and spun before tipping. Coffee poured across the surface like a spreading shadow.
He didn't notice the burn on his leg as he stood and ran, bolting out the door, weaving between bodies and cars and sounds that all blurred into static.
But by the time he reached the other side of the street—
The other him was gone.
Not ducked around a corner. Not hidden.
Gone.
Ethan stood there on the sidewalk, panting, the wind biting at his sleeves. Every breath felt sharp. Thin.
He hurried home.
Inside, everything looked the same. Same coffee-stained counter. Same stack of unopened mail. Same shoes by the door.
Except the lights flickered once when he stepped inside.
And the door had been unlocked.
There was a slip of paper on the floor.
Thin. Folded once.
He picked it up with trembling fingers. No handwriting. Just clean, typed letters.
You're in my dream. Wake up.