It started with the sound of pigeons.
Mia blinked. Her breath caught. The street around her was nearly empty—buildings low and uniform, the shopfronts still shuttered, neon signs blinking tired light into fog. She was standing alone on the sidewalk, journal clutched tight to her chest. Her hands trembled.
A blackspot.
Not the kind you anticipate. The kind that swallows time without warning. One second she'd been—where? In the diner? In Sarah's building?—and the next, here. Cold air curling against her neck. Sunrise barely brushing the edges of the block.
She turned slowly in place. No moving cars. No foot traffic. A paper cup rolled past in the gutter. The silence wasn't hostile, just… indifferent. As if the city had momentarily forgotten it was inhabited.
She exhaled. Her throat was dry.
The journal. Her fingers tightened around it.
She found a bench near the storefront awning and sat, flipping it open with urgency. Pages fluttered past—entries she'd written days ago, a note about Sarah's math packet, a sketch of the diner window. Then a gap.
Three pages blank.
One more page—dated today—held a single line in handwriting that wasn't hers.
"Too much pressure causes fracture. Rest the hinge."
Mia stared at it. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
She didn't remember writing that.
Her eyes scanned the margins. In the lower left corner, almost hidden in shadow, was a squiggle. Not a doodle. A symbol.
A spiral. Then two parallel slashes.
Not hers.
She touched it. The ink was dry.
She flipped back to the last page she remembered writing—a list of community center deadlines, circled in red. She'd added a note beneath: "Brochures placed. Sarah unsure. Watch closely."
That had been last night. Or the night before.
The memory sat just out of reach, like a tune she couldn't hum.
She closed her eyes.
Don't panic.
Don't panic.
But the blackspots were growing. First seconds. Then minutes. Now? Hours. Locations.
Time was thinning.
She took out a pen. Wrote in the margin beside the unfamiliar note: "Location: unknown. Time: ~6:00 a.m. Sky: gray-orange."
Then: "Find anchor."
She scanned the street again. A lamppost flickered. An old corner store with peeling decals. A parking meter covered in flyers. Nothing felt familiar, but everything did. Urban sameness.
She walked to the corner. No street sign. Just a pole. She stood still, listening.
The sound of footsteps. Distant.
She ducked back into the recessed doorway of the bakery and waited. A jogger passed by, earbuds in, oblivious.
She stepped out again. Crossed the street.
Inside her head, the timeline rippled.
Where had she been before?
A flicker: Sarah asleep, head tilted slightly toward the wall. A desk lamp still on. A stack of folded notes.
That was real. It had to be.
She breathed through her nose.
The bakery had a chalkboard sign leaning against the wall. She knelt and used her sleeve to wipe away the faint layer of dew.
Underneath, chalk marks remained: a sandwich special. A quote.
"You are not lost. Just between chapters."
Mia sat back.
She wasn't lost.
Not yet.
She opened the journal again and began to write.
Entry – Field Status:
Time memory rupture confirmed. Physical orientation: stable. No injuries. Journal intact. Symbol unknown. Must research cross-reference.
She flipped back to the page with the spiral symbol and traced it again.
Then beneath her note, she added a line:
"If pressure builds—what fractures first?"
The ink wobbled.
She closed the journal.
The sky was lightening now. Streetlights clicked off. Somewhere, a shutter clanged open. Morning was reclaiming the city.
Mia rose. Shoulders squared.
She didn't know how she'd gotten here.
But she knew how to get back.
One corner at a time. One street.
And the journal—her only anchor.
She started walking.
And as she passed a laundromat window, something caught her eye.
On her own journal's cover—scrawled in the upper corner—another note, written in thick, red ink:
"Turn to page 37."
She froze.
Flipped.
Page 37 was torn halfway out. Only the bottom remained.
On it:
"Don't forget her."
The words burned.
She stared. Then flipped to the back pocket.
A slip of paper.
A printout. A date. An address.
Sarah's school. Tomorrow's counseling schedule.
She exhaled.
The fracture hadn't erased everything.
Not yet.
And so, step by step, she turned toward home.
⸻
The streets began to populate around her. Commuters with coffee cups. A delivery truck backing into an alley. A man unlocking a florist shop, the scent of cut stems drifting faintly in the morning air.
Mia passed them all, silent, but aware. Her shoes tapped against the wet pavement. Her hands stayed tucked tight around the journal, as if it might otherwise slip through her fingers.
She reached the corner where the bus usually stopped and stood beneath the shelter. Her breath made small clouds. She flipped to the next blank page.
Under a new header—"Blackspot Recovery"—she began listing keywords from memory: chalkboard sign. bakery door. spiral. symbol. Sarah note. page 37. red ink. schedule.
Then, carefully:
"Counterweight: remember why."
The bus pulled in. Mia stepped on board. She didn't look at the driver. Just tapped her pass, took the back seat, and watched the city unfold through glass.
She wasn't lost.
But something was tracking her.
And she was beginning to learn how to track back.
She flipped to the last page in the notebook, stared at the uneven edge of the torn page.
She wrote slowly:
"Some parts are missing. That doesn't mean they're gone."
Then added: "She is still here."
The ink blotched slightly. The page absorbed it without protest.
Outside, the sun was cresting now. Rooftops shone. The bus curved toward familiar streets.
And Mia, pen still in hand, held the journal to her chest—not as proof.
But as compass.
She let her gaze drift toward the reflection in the window. Not her face, not fully. But a shape returning.
She was still here too.
⸻
The bus slowed as it approached her stop. Mia rose, gripping the bar lightly as the wheels hissed against the curb. She stepped off into the golden haze of morning, blinking against the light.
Her building loomed half a block away—familiar, quiet. Curtains still drawn in most windows.
As she approached, her foot caught on a crack in the pavement. She stumbled slightly, and something fell from between the journal's back cover.
A photo.
It wasn't new.
It showed a street corner. Hers. But darker. Fog rolled in thicker. And standing across from the bus shelter: herself.
Only the timestamp—printed in faded gray—broke the stillness.
7:03 a.m. Today.
She looked up. Checked the time.
7:02.
Across the street, the sidewalk was empty.
For now.
She picked up the photo. Slid it carefully back into the journal. And walked the last few steps to her door, pulse ticking hard beneath her skin.
She didn't lock the journal away.
She left it open on the table.
Facing page 37.
Waiting.