Morning hurt.
Not in a dramatic way. No cravings screaming, no cinematic despair. Just a precise, needling discomfort, like the world had been turned up half a notch too high and left there.
Aaron woke before the alarm he didn't own.
The halfway house room was narrow, beige, aggressively clean. Four beds. Three empty. The other guy had relapsed two nights ago and hadn't come back. Nobody talked about it. You didn't eulogize exits.
Aaron sat up slowly, feet on the cold floor, and waited for the day to settle into him.
It didn't.
Every sound had edges. Pipes knocking in the walls. A door down the hall closing too hard. Someone coughing like they were trying to escape their own lungs. His skin felt wrong—too tight, too loud, too aware of itself.
Sharp day, he thought.
The counselors called it post-acute withdrawal. The guys in group called it Tuesday.
Aaron stood, made his bed with military precision, and checked his pockets out of habit. Phone. Wallet. Keys. No pipe. No baggie. His body noticed the absence before his mind did.
Good.
In the bathroom mirror, he studied his face. Color was coming back. Not much, but enough to feel suspicious. Like a trick. Like the universe saying see? you're fine now before yanking the rug.
"You're not fine," he told the reflection. "You're moving."
He splashed water on his face and left before the mirror could argue.
Outside, the sky was low and gray. Snow threatened but didn't commit. The kind of weather that felt like a held breath.
Aaron walked. He always walked on sharp days. Burned off the static. Gave his brain something to chew on that wasn't memory.
Every block triggered something.
A bus stop where he'd nodded off standing up.
A gas station bathroom he'd locked himself in for hours.
An alley where he'd sworn he was done for good.
The city remembered him better than he liked.
At a crosswalk, a guy lit a cigarette. The flame flared, and for half a second Aaron's brain reached for it—heat, ritual, relief—then snapped back like it had touched a wire.
He clenched his jaw.
Across the street, a pawn shop window reflected him back again. Same warped face as the pipe last night. Same eyes—too alert, too hungry for pattern.
A phone buzzed in his pocket.
He froze.
Unknown number.
He stared at it like it might bite.
Keep moving, he told himself.
He answered while walking. Never stop.
"Yeah."
Silence. Then breathing. Controlled. Listening.
"Wrong number," Aaron said.
"No," the voice replied. Calm. Male. Smiling without sound. "Right one."
Aaron's stomach tightened. "Who is this?"
"A friend of a friend," the voice said. "Someone who appreciates momentum."
That word hit harder than it should have.
"You got me confused with somebody else," Aaron said.
A pause. Then: "You crushed the pipe."
Aaron stopped walking.
The city noise rushed back in all at once. A horn blared. A dog barked. Somewhere metal screamed against metal.
"How do you know that?" Aaron asked.
"I pay attention," the voice said. "You made a clean break. That's rare."
Aaron felt heat crawl up his neck. Paranoia or instinct—he couldn't tell anymore.
"I'm not interested," he said, and started walking again.
"Everyone is," the voice replied. "They just don't know it yet."
Aaron turned a corner hard, nearly colliding with a woman pushing a stroller. He muttered an apology without stopping.
"Look," he said, low, "I'm done with all that."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Done is a fantasy," the voice said. "There's only forward. Or back."
Aaron swallowed.
"You watching me?" he asked.
A soft chuckle. "Not yet."
The call ended.
Aaron stood there, phone still to his ear, heart hammering.
Sharp day.
He scanned the street. Faces. Cars. Windows. Nothing obvious. Nothing ever was.
He forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Counted steps until his hands stopped shaking.
He didn't know who the voice belonged to.
But he knew the tone.
Administrative. Certain. Like paperwork. Like fate.
Aaron slid the phone back into his pocket and walked faster.
Momentum wasn't optional anymore.
It was defense.
And something out there had noticed he was moving.