The alarm buzzed like a dying insect — thin, fragile, fading.
7:00 AM.
Souta Takashiro's eyelids peeled open slowly, reluctant to admit the day. Pale morning light filtered through threadbare curtains, painting soft rectangles on his futon. His gaze drifted upward to the ceiling's familiar crack — a fine hairline fracture that slanted rightward like a crooked river frozen in plaster.
It hasn't changed.
Or had it?
He blinked the thought away.
The room smelled of old tatami and faint incense — remnants of a life once vibrant, now settling into a quiet stasis. The low hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboard whispered a muted welcome.
But the air hung heavy. Too heavy.
He sat up, muscles tight, and rubbed his face. His heartbeat pulsed faintly in his ears, not quite matching the clock's rhythm.
He shuffled to the kitchenette.
The dented toaster oven from his aunt rested under a flickering bulb, casting jittery shadows across the cracked linoleum counter. A loaf of shokupan sat waiting — the edges softened by Tokyo's late summer humidity.
He tore two slices, slid them in, and set the dial to Level 2.
Hands moved with robotic ritual: kettle clicked on, a miso packet ripped open, tofu cubes dropped silently into lukewarm water.
7:04 AM.
Click.
The toast popped.
Burnt.
Edges curled like burnt paper, black and brittle. A sharp scent of carbon rose, clinging to the air like an unspoken warning.
He frowned, twisting the dial.
Still on two.
His stomach sank.
This wasn't just a mistake.
He stared long into the rising steam of his miso soup, the bitter tang of burnt bread sharp on his tongue.
Outside, the world ticked on: bicycles zipped down narrow alleys, a delivery truck beeped thrice, and the same crow screeched from the telephone wire.
But something inside him was unraveling.
At 8:00 AM, Souta left his apartment — on time, like always. Not out of necessity, but compulsion. Like the toast. Like the crack.
He passed the usual noodle stall — closed.
Except it wasn't.
Steam twisted from its vents. Shadowed movement behind the curtain.
That stall never opened before ten.
Odd.
At the bakery, the obaasan smiled warmly, sleeves dusted with flour as usual.
But she waved with her left hand.
Hadn't it always been her right?
His shoes hit the pavement in an uneven rhythm — a subtle stutter, like a heartbeat out of sync.
Then the dog appeared.
The brown-and-white mutt with three legs.
Only now, it had four.
The golden eyes locked onto his, shining like frozen amber.
Souta froze.
The dog tilted its head, as if questioning him.
Then trotted away, smooth and unburdened.
At university, Professor Mori lectured on post-war economics. Chalk scraped lazily. Students doodled, yawning.
Souta's pen moved without thought, sketching circles, spirals, and strange symbols he couldn't name.
A triangle intersected by a line.
A mirrored number seven.
He blinked. He didn't remember drawing them.
Yumi appeared with a melon soda.
"You forgot to drink again," she said softly, handing it over.
Cold, sweet, familiar.
"Feeling better?" he asked hesitantly.
She cocked her head. "Better?"
"You weren't here yesterday. You said you had a fever."
Her brow furrowed in confusion. "I haven't missed a class all week."
His phone — empty. No messages. No missed calls. No record of their conversation.
Only a hollow space where memory should have been.
That evening, dusk painted the sky in sherbet hues. Souta stepped inside his apartment.
His umbrella rested in the left slot.
He always placed it on the right.
The tanuki statue near the door faced east.
It was supposed to face the door.
Everything looked exactly the same.
But nothing felt right.
He opened the fridge.
Empty.
Except for a small sticky note on the door:
"Check the ceiling."
His breath caught.
He hadn't written that.
Had he?
He climbed onto his bed and looked up.
The crack now slanted left.
It had never gone left before.
Cold sweat traced down his spine.
7:00 AM.
The alarm screamed again.
Souta opened his eyes.
Heart slower than before.
He rose.
Shokupan. Toaster. Level 2.
Clock: 7:04 AM.
Click.
The toast popped.
Perfectly golden.
No smoke.
No bitterness.
Just the warm, comforting scent of bread.
He stared upward.
The crack was gone.
And that absence—more terrifying than any flaw.