The world had ended, but my heartbeat hadn't. That was the cruel part.
I woke to silence so deep it made my eardrums ache, as if the air itself had been hollowed out. My body was curled in on itself, muscles locked, like some part of me had been trying to make myself smaller, vanish. My fingers twitched. They were cold, too cold—like the blood had forgotten how to move.
The sky above wasn't black or gray. It was empty. Not even the dark you see in a moonless night, but the absence of light, a raw void that made my stomach pitch like I was staring over the edge of something infinite.
Tick.
The sound made my bones clench. It was the same tick from before—the clock, the one that shouldn't exist anymore.
Tick.
I sat up too fast, vision swimming. All around me lay the skeleton of a city, stripped bare. No glass in the windows. No paint on the walls. It was as though color had been stolen, leaving everything in the same brittle shade of ash. Buildings leaned against each other like drunks, but there was no wind to make them sway. Not a bird. Not even the whisper of dust.
Tick.
I turned toward the sound. It came from the center of the street, from a pocket watch resting on the cracked asphalt. Its face was shattered, the hands both stuck at midnight. But still—it ticked.
I picked it up, and a heat crawled up my arm so fast I nearly dropped it. My vision flickered, like a bad film reel stuttering between frames.
For a fraction of a second, I wasn't in the street anymore. I was in the opera house again.
Except it was worse now. The ceiling was gone, letting in the bleeding red moon. Every seat was occupied—but not by people. By shapes, silhouettes carved from the same darkness as the sky. Their heads turned toward me in perfect unison.
A voice whispered."You are late."
I staggered back. My spine hit asphalt again. I was in the street. My hands were shaking so badly I almost crushed the watch. I wanted to throw it away, smash it into the ground until it stopped ticking.
But… it was warm. Almost comforting, like the heat of a living hand in mine.
My chest tightened. "Who's there?"
No answer. Just the ticking, steady and patient, like it could wait forever for me to crack.
My eyes drifted down the street. There was movement now—not people, but something sliding along the ground, leaving ripples in the dust as though it was water. My breath hitched.
They weren't shapes. They were… shadows. But they weren't attached to anything. No source. No owner. Just moving. Crawling toward me.
I stepped back, clutching the watch.
The shadows froze. Then, one of them extended upward, stretching and warping until it stood like a person. Not human, not quite. Limbs too long, head tilting with the soft crunch of something dry breaking.
It didn't speak. Didn't have to. The pressure in my skull was enough—a feeling, not words.
We've been waiting.
I didn't run. Couldn't. My body felt like part of the air, trapped in the same stale nothingness.
The shadow took one step forward. Then another. My pulse hammered louder than the ticking.
When it stopped, it reached toward my chest—not the watch, but me. Its fingers slid into my skin without tearing it. Cold seeped in. My vision blurred again.
Opera house.
This time I was on stage. The audience of shadows watched in silence. The voice returned."Sing."
I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry, my tongue heavy.
"Sing… or we will."
When I blinked, I was back in the street again. The shadow was gone, but my chest ached like something had been pulled out of me.
The watch was still ticking.
I wasn't sure if the world had truly ended, or if it was just me.
And in that moment, I wasn't sure which was worse.