Static Hours

Track 7 - Spin Cycle

Greyline, BC — August 8, 2025 — 12:09 PM

Sora knew before she opened her eyes: the day hadn't reset properly.

The room was too quiet — not silent, just hollow. As if some sounds got left behind. Her phone screen was black. Her laptop's sleep light pulsed in a different rhythm. Her microwave's clock blinked:

1:13

Again.

She slid out of bed, careful not to disturb the warped tension in the air. On the desk, her notebook lay open — to a page she hadn't touched since last week. One line had been added, in her handwriting:

"Catch your breath before you loop."

She didn't remember writing it.

In the mirror, her reflection lagged. Not constantly — just enough to register wrong. It turned a second after she did, smiled faintly before she meant to. She pulled her hoodie tighter. It didn't help.

The fridge door clicked behind her. She turned. It was already open — wide. Inside, nothing cold. Just a faint, metallic hum and a blinking red light that didn't belong to any appliance she owned.

She closed it slowly.

A taste of static was on her tongue.

She'd had a dream — or maybe a memory — about a hallway that stretched forever. Walls blinking with album art. Her own voice narrating her steps like an outro. It was already gone, but the feeling remained: drowning in air.

At the sink, her reflection didn't just lag. It twitched. A half-smile formed before her lips even moved. Then corrected. Smooth. Seamless.

She didn't blink. Just watched. Waiting for it to fall out of sync again.

Her phone buzzed once.

Cass: 
Just coordinates. No text. No timestamp. A single coin emoji.

No explanation.

She didn't reply. Just moved. Hoodie on. Bag slung. Out the door.

12:37 PM — SPIN CYCLE (Cass's Lair)

The building had been a laundromat once — barely. Its windows were opaque with grime, the signage half-ripped, still readable as "Spin C–LE." The door creaked open on its own.

Inside, the smell of burnt wiring and dust.

One dryer was spinning, but unplugged. A rhythmic thud, like a heartbeat with no body.

Sora slipped past it, down a narrow hallway that seemed longer than she remembered.

The bunker below was worse — or better, depending on your paranoia. Racks of analog gear, audio decks playing tape loops with no labels, CRTs flickering static. A wall of photos. A wave of sound just below hearing.

The smell of soldered metal coated everything. A burnt wire scent mixed with ozone and dust. Every step Sora took into the room triggered a slight pitch shift — not from speakers, but from the room itself, as if it adjusted to her presence.

Cass had pinned dozens of photos to one wall. Some were blurry frames of strangers mid-step. Others were anomalies: floating hands, doubled faces, eyes that caught flash where they shouldn't have.

Near the top — a Polaroid of her.

Sora.

Same hoodie. Same hair.