Winston Hills, Sydney — August 26th, 2008.
Morning—around 6:30 AM.
The sun was barely up, but Daniel was already standing by the kitchen counter, holding a near empty milk carton like it had personally betrayed him.
"Claire!" he called, voice still thick with sleep. "We are out of milk again."
Claire didn't answer. Seeing this, he went towards the stairs. From upstairs, he heard the shower running—probably.
Ethan's turn before school. Daniel sighed and checked the fridge once more, as if the milk might magically reappear out of thin air. But there was no such luck for him.
A toast popped up. He slapped on some butter, burnt his fingers on the edge, muttered under his breath, and leaned on the counter with a quiet groan.
A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder. He rolled it slowly, confused. It felt like he had been punched hard, or maybe he slept with the wrong posture. Though he couldn't recall tossing around that much last night.
He started to rub his back from the pain. It was very strange, as he was usually a light sleeper.
Footsteps came from the stairs. Ethan appeared in his school uniform, still half damp from the shower, a spoon in one hand and a box of cereal in the other.
"Wuh… ou'… miek… agghn… (We're out of milk again)," Ethan said, yawning and staring at his father.
"I know," Daniel replied, holding up the empty carton like evidence in court.
Ethan looked unimpressed and poured dry cereal into a bowl. It crunched like gravel.
"You came in late last night, Dad"
Daniel blinked. "Did I?"
Ethan gave him a look, the kind kids give when they think they know something grown ups are pretending not to.
"Yeah. Mum said you were working late, but…but I heard the door open. It was, like… when I was going to the restroom, I don't know…two?"
Daniel frowned. "That can't be right. I was in bed by eleven. Maybe you dreamed it."
Ethan shrugged, clearly still unconvinced.
Claire finally came downstairs, drying her hair with a towel. She kept staring at Daniel for a few minutes, which wasn't normal.
"You okay?" She asked.
"Why wouldn't I be ?"
She gave him a small smile. "You left your shoes in the hallway again. And your jacket was on the floor. You are usually tidier than me."
Daniel gave a weak chuckle, but inside he was thinking. That didn't sound like him. Not even on his worst days, he wouldn't do something like that.
"Just tired," he said, and started to divert the topic. "I have got that interview today—the bank one."
"Right." She paused. "That's today?"
She understood that he didn't want to talk about it anymore and respected it.
He nodded, took a bite of toast he didn't want, and chewed as if it might help him focus.
There was an awkward silence between them for a few minutes.
"You will be great," she said, softer now. "Just...try not to overthink it."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. As he got dressed later, pulling on a pale blue shirt, he noticed something missing from the wardrobe.
His darker shirt—the one he liked for formal days—wasn't there. He was sure he hadn't worn it. He checked the laundry basket, but it wasn't there.
Weird. He clearly remembered, he hadn't worn it in over a week, or had he?
His keys were in the wrong pocket of his coat. A faint smell of smoke clung to the fabric, which surprised him.
He clearly wasn't a smoker nor does he have many friends who smoked.
Daniel stood there in silence for a while thinking where he could have put his shirt. With no answer, he stopped his search.
Then he straightened his collar, patted his cheeks to wake himself up, and stepped out into the morning chill.
Just a man heading to a job interview, wondering if it was normal to feel like you were sleepwalking through your own life.
Afternoon, around 2:00.
The interview didn't go terribly—but that didn't mean it went well.
Daniel sat on a park bench afterwards, tie loosened, staring at pigeons fighting over crumbs. His phone buzzed with a missed call from Claire. He didn't answer.
"I'lll call her back," he mumbled to himself. He wouldn't, not yet.
The sky was overcast in that particular British way, always threatening rain but never quite delivering.
His reflection on the phone screen looked pale. Tired, the kind of tiredness that stays even after eight hours of sleep and still wakes up hollow.
He rubbed his temples and winced. The ache in his shoulder had grown sharper, like something had twisted beneath the skin.
He rolled it again and slipped off his jacket to check. His shirt sleeve was buttoned tight, but when he unfastened the cuff and pulled it up, his breath caught.
A bruise bloomed along the upper arm—deep purple, faintly yellow at the edges. It looked several days old.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
He pressed it gently. It hurts. Not sharp pain—but a dull throb, like an old injury.
He didn't have time to check this morning as he woke up late. Otherwise, he could've checked it while bathing.
He searched his memory. Had he bumped into something? Fallen? Nothing. Absolutely nothing came to mind. Just…blank.
A group of teens passed by, laughing loudly. Daniel flinched, pulling his sleeve back down quickly, like he was hiding something shameful.
He stood up, brushing off invisible dust, picked up his jacket and started walking.
After an hour, he got home just before Ethan did.
Claire was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, and looked up with a start. "You are early."
He shrugged. "Interview ended faster than I thought."
Her eyes flicked to his shoulder. "You all alright?"
"Yeah," he lied.
"You're walking funny."
"Am I?"
"You've been…twitchy lately." She gave a light laugh to soften it. "Is the midlife crisis creeping in early?"
Daniel forced a smile and kissed her cheek. "Guess I'm falling apart."
He went upstairs before she could ask more.
In the bathroom, he checked the mirror. There were scratches on his neck.
Not deep, but real. Faint pink lines, like nails or branches. His heart thumped faster. Was he sleepwalking?
His toothbrush was changed. His razor had been moved to a different place.There was a different brand of shaving foam on the sink—one he never used.
He turned around and opened the wardrobe. Shirts folded neatly—but one was missing again. Another black one, back from the laundry, had vanished. That makes two now.
He checked the laundry bin again, but it was empty.
His stomach made a growling sound.
Growl!
He heard Claire calling from downstairs. "Dinner is ready!"
Daniel stared into the mirror.
For a moment—just a flicker—he felt he had become different in the mirror, his eyes looking sharper.
He blinked, and they were just his eyes again.
It seems I've been tired recently.
He stepped back, shook his head, and whispered to himself.
"Maybe I'm really going mad."