I woke earlier than usual, long before the alarm. The room held that heavy pre-dawn quiet, the kind that makes each breath sound like it might crack the air if it gets too loud. Something from the dream followed me out of sleep — not the pictures, those dissolved the moment my eyes opened — but the feeling. A tight pull across the chest, like stepping on thin glass.
A faint trace of old voices lingered at the edge of memory. I pushed them back and got ready.
Outside, the morning air felt colder than it should. The city hadn't settled into itself yet; everything felt slightly tilted, as if the day had begun at the wrong angle. I followed my usual route, hoping routine would steady me.
Then the intersection appeared.
Skid marks slashed across the asphalt — dark, uneven lines that broke the surface of the road like someone had dragged a knife through wet paint. My steps slowed on their own.
Why did I freeze that night?
The question hit harder in daylight.
Maybe it wasn't the car. Maybe it was something older.
I pulled my gaze away and kept walking.
Work drowned the morning's quiet in a wash of noise — machines humming, chairs scraping, people talking over each other. I tried to lose myself in the repetition of tasks, hoping the rhythm would hold everything in place.
"Rough night?" someone asked as they passed.
I forced a small laugh. "Yeah. Trouble sleeping."
I wanted the conversation to end there. It did.
But the unease didn't. My attention kept slipping, drifting back to the skid marks, the dream, the quiet tension in my chest. At one point I misread a value — something minor, easily fixed if I'd caught it.
Instead, my name cut across the room.
The tone did it. Not the words — the tone. Sharp. Snapping through the air with a pitch that hit somewhere old.
A doorway flashed in my mind.
My mother's shoulders pulled inward.
A shadow across a wall.
A voice rising, splitting the room in two.
My hands small. My breath held.
It was gone before I could blink, but the echo left my pulse stumbling.
"I'll fix it," I said quietly, keeping my eyes on the screen.
The rest of the shift blurred by scattered pieces until the windows turned dark.
The walk home felt colder. Streetlights stretched long shapes across the pavement, bending and shifting each time a car passed. My steps fell into an automatic rhythm — corner, street, corner — until something near the curb interrupted it.
A small shape.
Soft fur matted against the asphalt.
A kitten, still and folded in on itself.
I stopped without meaning to. The sight lodged somewhere deep, quiet and sharp. Someone should move it. At least give it enough dignity not to be crushed again.
I glanced around. A couple walked on the opposite sidewalk. Someone stood near a parked car. Too many possibilities for eyes turning my way.
My foot lifted, hovered… then eased back down.
The cold pressed a little deeper into my hands.
I walked on.
Behind me, the kitten stayed where it was — a small, pale shape beneath the streetlight, shrinking into the distance as I turned the corner.
Maybe next time…
If there is a next time.