Not Yet

You step back. The hand retreats into the glass. The glow fades. The crack closes -- not heals, just... closes. Like a mouth that was about to speak and thought better of it.

Your reflection looks at you. Still smiling. But the sadness is heavier now.

The condensation on the glass reads:

I'LL WAIT.

You spend the rest of the day in the apartment. Nothing happens. No glitches. No messages. The sky stays blue. The parking lot stays full. The ordinary world performs its ordinary kindness: no truck, no warning, no reason to be afraid.

But the quiet does not feel like safety. It feels like a program waiting for an input. You keep checking the mirror. Each time it is only glass. Each time you are relieved, and each time the relief feels like another choice you are postponing.

At 11:47 PM, you fall asleep.

In the dark, you understand what the day was trying to show you. Refusing the door did not end the loop. It only returned you to its beginning. The hand will wait. The crack will wait. The question will wait with it.

At 6:47 AM, the alarm sounds wrong again. You open your eyes before the first three notes finish. Same ceiling. Same crack. Same water stain. But this time, the room feels like it is waiting for you to remember.