The clock ticks. Then ticks again. Then again. The sound fills the empty apartment, bouncing off the walls. She paces. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Each step feels the same, but shifts the weight of the room slightly.
She whispers a name—her own. It repeats back at her, but slightly different each time. First, like a sigh. Then, like a question. Then, like an accusation.
A drip from the faucet. A flicker of the overhead light. The same loop of events over and over again, except slightly altered with each repetition. Like the way memories work—not exact, not precise, but slowly shifting with every recollection.
She closes her eyes. Breathes. Opens them. The room still looks the same. Almost.