153. The Man Who Didn’t FollowNova

Nothing happens.

That’s the strange part.

There’s no phone call. No knock at the door. No memory ambushing me while I’m folding laundry or signing documents or stirring soup on the stove.

The day unfolds the way days are supposed to; ordinary, obedient and unremarkable and yet, something in me tilts.

I feel it in the morning, first. Not sharply. Not urgently. Just a subtle rearrangement, like furniture moved in a dark room while I slept.

I wake before ...