The first time I noticed the number, I thought I was hallucinating.
It was a dull Monday morning. The bus was crowded, the air smelled like metal and sweat, and my phone screen was cracked from a fall the night before. Everything felt painfully normal—until I glanced at the reflection on the bus window.
Above my head, floating faintly like a glitch in reality, was a number.
72:14:09:33
Days. Hours. Minutes. Seconds.
I blinked hard.
The number didn't disappear.
My heart skipped a beat. I looked around, expecting someone else to react, to point at me, to scream. But everyone remained glued to their phones, headphones in, faces empty.
I rubbed my eyes and checked again.
The number was still there, following my movements perfectly, as if it were attached to my existence.
"Calm down," I whispered. "You didn't sleep. That's all."
I opened my phone camera and switched to the front lens.
The number appeared on the screen too.
My hands trembled.
This wasn't stress. This wasn't imagination.
This was real.
I got off the bus three stops early and walked the rest of the way to work. Every step felt heavier than the last. The number above my head ticked down relentlessly.
72:14:08:51
72:14:08:50
A countdown.
To what?
Death?
The thought slammed into my chest like a hammer.
I stopped walking.
If that number really meant what I feared, then I had just over seventy-two days left to live.
No warning. No explanation. Just a timer.
I forced myself to breathe and looked at the people passing by. Out of desperation, I focused on the woman standing near the crosswalk.
Above her head floated a number too.
128:03:44:10
I froze.
Another man walked past.
9:22:01:17
A child holding his mother's hand:
300:11:02:55
Everyone had a number.
Everyone except they didn't see it.
Only I did.
The world suddenly felt fragile, like glass stretched too thin.
I followed the man with less than ten days left. He looked healthy—mid-thirties, well-dressed, laughing into his phone. He crossed the street against the light.
The timer above his head flickered.
9:22:00:59
A truck horn blared.
I shouted without thinking.
"STOP!"
He turned, confused.
The truck hit him before I could say another word.
The sound was deafening. Screams erupted. People rushed forward. Blood spread across the asphalt in a way no movie could ever prepare you for.
I stood there, frozen, staring at the number above his head as it hit zero.
0:00:00:00
And then it vanished.
So did the man.
I threw up in a trash can two streets away.
That was the moment everything changed.
This wasn't a prediction.
It was a death clock.
And somehow, for reasons I couldn't begin to understand, I was the only one who could see it.
That night, I locked myself in my apartment and didn't turn on the lights. The numbers followed me even in the dark. Reflections. Screens. Shadows.
No matter where I went, my own timer hovered silently above me, counting down my remaining life.
72:13:01:06
I searched the internet until my fingers hurt. Hallucinations. Mental illness. Optical illusions. Nothing matched what I was experiencing.
At 2:17 a.m., my laptop screen flickered.
A black window popped up, uninvited.
White text appeared.
SYSTEM INITIALIZING…
My blood ran cold.
I hadn't installed anything. I was offline.
Another line appeared.
USER VERIFIED
UNIQUE OBSERVER STATUS: CONFIRMED
My name appeared on the screen.
Then a message that made my breath stop.
You can see remaining lifespan.
You may interfere.
Every interference has a cost.
I stared at the words until they burned into my eyes.
"Cost?" I whispered.
As if responding to my voice, the system displayed one final line.
Your time is the currency.
My countdown dropped suddenly.
72:12:58:21
Three seconds vanished.
Just like that.
I leaned back in my chair, heart pounding, understanding dawning slowly and horribly.
Saving others would shorten my life.
Doing nothing meant watching people die.
And the clock above my head would never stop ticking.