Aiden Hartman's shoes whispered across the linoleum floor as he stepped into the apartment—an unspoken plea for silence. Outside, dusk bled through the windows, tinting the living room in bruised purples and grays. He'd left work early, dread knotting his gut. Every loop's edge sharpened like glass; every time he rewound, Jade's fracture seemed to deepen. He could no longer wait to see what she planned next.
He found her first in the kitchen. A single tone chimed from the stove's timer—he'd prepped a light dinner, but the pot brimmed undisturbed on the burner. He set down his bag and exhaled, mindful of the empty calm. Without asking if she wanted help, he tipped the lid back and stirred the vegetable broth, steam misting his glasses. He ladled a bowl and carried it to the coffee table. No Jade.
The living room couch sat vacant, its blankets undisturbed. A quick glance at the clock: 6:45 PM. He pictured her in the bedroom, where she'd retreated more these days. He toyed with his grandmother's watch in his jacket pocket—its brass warm, the crystal cracked—but he refrained from pressing it. No time-jumping yet. He promised her this would be the last loop, so he needed to intercept without magic.
He advanced down the hallway, empty wine bottles and stacked journals shrinking his step. He froze at the bathroom door's gap: a sliver of golden light. He eased inside, heart sputtering.
Jade sat on the closed toilet lid, legs crossed, back rigid against the door frame. Her hair was stuck to damp cheeks; dark circles hollowed her eyes. In her lap lay a prescription pill bottle—its orange plastic gleaming under the bulb. Next to her on the floor was a roll of gray duct tape, unwound into a serpent's tail.
He held his breath. The top of the bottle lay off to the side; a handful of white capsules tumbled in her palm. The tape's sticky side gleamed where she'd torn strips: one long piece curled across her lap; another lay crooked on the floor, edges dusted with lint. She pressed a strip across her mouth, the tape cinching her lower jaw so only a whisper of breath escaped. Another strip lay prepped, ready to seal her nostrils.
Every instinct screamed. He lunged forward.
"Jade—stop," he hissed, torn between gentleness and panic.
Her head tilted; behind the tape, her jaw flexed. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. She tilted the bottle, capsules bouncing toward her mouth.
He yanked the tape from her face—her cry muffled as the strips tore free. She gasped, shaking her head, eyes wild. He slapped his hand over the bottle before more pills could escape.
"Don't!" he rasped, ripping open the bottle and flinging it across the room. Capsules skittered like billiard balls under the vanity.
She rocked back, shoulders slumping against the wall. Tears leaked down her cheeks. He shoved the tape aside with his foot.
His heart hammered as she sank to the floor, robe pooling around her. He knelt, pressing his palms to her jaw, inspecting her eyes. Had she tried to suffocate herself after dosage? His breath lodged in his throat.
He rose. "Stay—stay right here." He rifled through the medicine cabinet, tossing aside antiseptic and bandages until he found the antiseptic wipes. He wiped the corners of her eyes with trembling fingers. She closed her eyes, leaning into the cool touch.
He exhaled, body trembling. "I'm calling 911," he said, voice raw. "You can't do this."
She suddenly shook her head, voice muffled but fierce. "No—no hospitals." Her hands scrabbled at the wall. "No sedatives."
He met her gaze, tears in his own. "I need them to check your breathing." He stepped back and dialed, voice hurried.
"911, what's your emergency?" A calm female voice answered.
He knelt again, checking Jade's pulse at her wrist—rapid but steady. She coughed, chest heaving. "My sister's overdosed. Capsule count unknown. Taped mouth. Please—"
He gave the address, heart jangling as he answered clarifying questions. Next to him, Jade wept, her breaths deep but uneven. He brushed her hair behind her ear. "Help is coming." He laid his hand on her back in steady pressure.
Sirens wailed before he ended the call. Jade closed her eyes, gripping his arm. He leaned close, voice soft: "You'll be okay."
Moments later, paramedics flooded the hallway. He helped them carry Jade to the stretcher, her eyes fluttering open as they zipped her in. She whispered his name.
"It's all right," he said, kissing her forehead. "You're safe."
They wheeled her out. He followed, backpack at the ready, guiding them down the stairs. The TV crew from the news show up? No. A private crisis, between siblings.
Outside, ambulance lights bled red and blue across damp pavement. Jade lay on the stretcher, blanket pulled up to her shoulders. He stayed by her side until EMTs climbed inside, then watched the doors close. His hands trembled, jacket sleeves soaked through.
He stayed on the curb, rain sprinkling, listening to thunder rumble overhead. He pressed the watch to his chest through his shirt—as if it might burn away the memory of almost losing her again.
The ambulance's lights faded down the block. He exhaled a broken breath. He had the power to rewind—but at too great a cost. He felt raw naked under the sky, face slick with raindrops.
He closed his fist around the watch. The apartment lay behind him, its windows dark. He stared at the night and let the weight of the loop rest heavy under his ribs.
He lifted the watch to his lips and pressed the crystal.
—
The world shivered and rewound. The hiss of sirens bled backward. Rain un-fell. The thud of his heartbeat reversed into pounding urgency.
Aiden's eyes snapped open. He stood in the kitchen doorway—6:45 PM. Not this afternoon, but exactly last night. Capsules sat lined on the coffee table; duct tape curled on the sofa's edge. He swallowed, jaw tight.
He clenched the watch and stepped forward.
He darted down the hallway past the living room. In the bathroom, Jade hadn't yet arrived. The sink faucet dripped, and the tile floor lay dry.
He left the bathroom and sprinted to the bedroom. No Jade—just her robe flung over the chair and a teaset on the dresser untouched.
He exhaled, knees trembling. One hour and fifteen minutes before the overdose. He heard the tick of the watch in his chest.
He crossed to the kitchen and yanked open the cabinet where the medicine lay. He yanked out the vial of sleeping pills. He dumped them all into his hand, ripping off the lid. White capsules tumbled in a reassuring pile. He crushed them against the counter, shattering them into powder. He dumped the residue down the sink and ran water until it vanished.
He tore the duct tape from the table's edge, scattering strips to the floor. He slashed the roll in two with scissors and tossed them both into the trash, sealing the bag tight.
He slammed the cupboard shut and raced down the hallway. Jade's door stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open with his shoulder and stepped inside.
She sat on the bed with a mug, eyes distant. She blinked at him. In that hour, he'd cut off her means once, maybe saved her again.
He crossed the room, shutting the door. "I'm going out for groceries," he blurted. "I'll bring you dinner."
She blinked. "Okay."
He raced back to the kitchen and made a list: fresh fruit, juice, fresh bread, herbal tea—nothing that could kill her. He strapped on his jacket and tossed the watch in his coat pocket.
He paused at the doorway. Jade stood by the window, watching him. She bit her lip, and his heart clenched. He forced a smile.
He closed the door behind him, securing the deadbolt. The watch's second hand hung at twelve—a silent vigil.
Outside, rain began to fall. He dashed down the stairs into the night's hush. He didn't look back. He couldn't. Not again.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Broken Loop
FantasíaWhen his estranged sister leaps to her death, Aiden finds himself trapped in a 24-hour time loop powered by a cracked pocket watch left behind by their late grandmother. Each reset forces him to relive her final hours, wrestling with memories they o...
