The Static Between Worlds

Chapter One: The Last Real Morning

The coffee machine made its usual dying animal sound. That meant it was working.

Ilya stood barefoot on the cold kitchen tile, arms folded as she watched the machine hiccup and groan. It was old, secondhand, and probably held together by sheer spite—but it got the job done. Barely.

Moth, her gray tabby cat, sat on the windowsill, tail curled neatly around his paws like a fluffy comma. He was staring—not at her, but at the corner of the ceiling where a sunbeam danced.

"You're not getting any," she murmured, pouring the coffee into her chipped ceramic mug, the one with the faded constellation map. Moth didn't blink. Didn't move. Just kept staring.

Weird cat.

The radio on the counter crackled suddenly—sharp, like teeth on metal—and then went silent. For half a second, the only sound in the kitchen was the hum of the fridge and the faint clink of the spoon in her mug. Then the music resumed, soft and syrupy, as if nothing had happened.

Ilya frowned, glancing at the dial. It hadn't moved.

"Add that to the list of things that need exorcising," she muttered, sipping her coffee and making a face. Too bitter. She sipped again anyway.

Outside, the sky was too blue. Not pretty-blue. Not cheerful-summer-holiday-blue. Just... off. Like it had been edited in post-production. A sky that didn't breathe. No birds. No wind. Just a painted dome.

She pushed the thought away and headed out to the porch.

Rhett was already outside, sleeves rolled up, squinting into the guts of an old fuse box near the back fence. He had a habit of fixing things that didn't strictly need fixing. Said it made him feel useful. Ilya thought it made him look like a very determined raccoon.

She handed him a mug. "Didn't want you electrocuting yourself without caffeine."

Rhett grinned, taking the mug and brushing a strand of dark hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. "If I die this early in the day, it's your fault. This stuff smells like motor oil."

"Compliments to the chef," she said, and sat down on the porch steps beside a potted cactus that had been dead for at least three months.

Moth emerged from somewhere—probably materializing from thin air—and took his throne on the porch railing. He squinted at the horizon with the air of someone deeply offended by its existence.

"You know he was watching the wall again," Ilya said, tilting her head toward Moth.

Rhett didn't look up. "He's always watching something. Or nothing. Creeps me out."

Ilya gave the cat a sideways look. "You hear that, buddy? You creep people out."

Moth blinked at her slowly, like the world's smallest judgmental god.

Later that afternoon, the house felt too quiet.

Ilya stood in the living room, one hand resting on the back of the couch, staring at the old television.

It was on.

That was the first thing.

She was sure she hadn't touched it. She hadn't even picked up the remote since last night. But there it was—buzzing faintly, the screen flickering with washed-out color bars and a soft whine that felt like it buzzed behind her eyes.

She stepped closer. Static crackled briefly, then cut to black.

Then the screen lit up again.

A scene began to play. Old-looking film. A foggy wooded path. A girl walking through the trees with a lantern.

Her.

She blinked. The girl on the screen had her face, her hair, even the tiny scar above her eyebrow from when she slipped on the back porch last spring.

But she wasn't acting. She wasn't saying lines. It was her, walking through fog she'd never seen, wearing a coat she didn't own.

"Moth?" she said quietly.

The cat was sitting just in front of the screen, his tail curled neatly beside him. He wasn't watching the TV—he was watching her.

She took a slow breath, then reached for the remote.

The screen cut to black before she could press anything. Then static. Then off.

Nothing.

Rhett returned an hour later, fiddling with the door lock and juggling a bag of old radio parts.

She didn't mention what happened. Not right away.

But Moth kept sitting in front of the TV all evening, eyes flicking between Ilya and the darkened screen, like he was waiting for the next episode to start.

She tried not to look at the TV for the rest of the night.

It was off. She checked twice. Unplugged it, even. Still, she kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting the screen to flicker back on with her face staring back.

But it didn't. It sat there like it always had—an outdated boxy thing Rhett had rescued from a thrift shop, complete with a single sticky button and a warped screen that gave everyone a slight squint. It had no smart features, no Wi-Fi, no reason to do anything strange.

Except it had.

And she wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Moth hadn't left the living room. He stayed perched on the back of the couch, eyes flicking between her and the unplugged TV like he was waiting for something to reboot.

She set a glass of water on the nightstand and crawled into bed, curling around one of Rhett's sweatshirts. It still smelled like him—like motor oil and cedar soap and the cheap peppermint gum he always carried.

The house was too still.

Rhett had mentioned going into town early tomorrow for something. She'd already forgotten what. Something about wires? Maybe a belt for the dryer? He always fixed things before they broke. She admired that. She needed someone like him. Someone who stayed steady when she spiraled.

Moth padded into the room and leapt softly onto the bed. He curled up against her side, letting out a single, deep sigh.

She looked down at him, eyebrows furrowed.

"You know something, don't you?"

He didn't answer. Of course he didn't. He was a cat.

She reached down and scratched behind his ears. His purring started up like an old engine—loud, rattling, oddly comforting.

But still... she couldn't sleep.

Her thoughts wouldn't settle. Her skin prickled like the air was holding its breath.

Somewhere in the distance—too far to name—a soft, low hummmmm began to rise, barely audible. Like a TV on in another room. Like a signal no one had meant to send.

The next morning would not come.

Not the way mornings were meant to.