Ethan Kane woke to the soft chirping of birds and the golden rays of sunlight streaming through his bedroom window. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted up from the kitchen, where his wife, Anna, hummed as she prepared breakfast.
It was the perfect day.
At work, his boss praised his efforts on a project, his coworkers laughed at his jokes, and his inbox was free of stress. The evening was even better—a candlelit dinner with Anna, her laughter filling the air, followed by a stroll under a canopy of stars.
As he fell asleep that night, he felt content in a way he hadn't in years.
When he woke the next morning, the birds chirped in the same rhythm, and the golden sunlight hit his pillow at the same angle. The coffee smelled just as rich, and Anna hummed the same tune.
It didn't strike him as odd—not at first.
By the third morning, Ethan noticed the déjà vu. The same sequence of events repeated, down to the timing of a car horn outside and the exact words Anna used to ask if he wanted two eggs or three.
"This is weird," he muttered as he sipped his coffee.
At first, he reveled in it. Knowing what would happen gave him a sense of control. He nailed every meeting at work, predicted conversations before they happened, and even surprised Anna by reciting her favorite poem—something he had struggled to remember before.
But on the fifth day, cracks began to appear.
The first was small: the barista at the coffee shop handed him his latte with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. The next day, she repeated the same words, but her lips didn't move in sync with her voice.
By the seventh day, his coworkers' laughter at his jokes sounded mechanical, like a recording.
Ethan began exploring the limits of the day. He stayed home instead of going to work, but nothing changed. Anna still hummed in the kitchen, still asked about eggs, still smiled as if everything were fine.
When he walked downtown, he noticed shadows moving where there shouldn't be any—too fast, too sharp. He could swear he heard whispers coming from the cracks in the sidewalk, the wind carrying words he couldn't quite make out.
On the ninth day, he confronted Anna.
"Do you remember yesterday?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"Of course," she replied, her smile unwavering. But her eyes didn't blink.
He stared at her, his heart pounding. "What's happening, Anna?"
Her smile faltered for a split second—just long enough for him to see something lurking beneath her expression. Then it was back, bright and flawless.
"Don't be silly, Ethan. It's just another perfect day."
Desperate for answers, Ethan stayed up all night, refusing to sleep. The day wouldn't reset if he didn't close his eyes, he reasoned.
But as the clock struck midnight, the world around him began to distort. Anna froze mid-step, her face locked in a blank expression. Outside, the birds stopped chirping, and the wind ceased to blow. The entire world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, in the silence, he heard it—a low, guttural whisper coming from the walls.
"You're awake, Ethan. You weren't supposed to notice."
Panicking, he ran outside, only to find the streets empty. The sky above wasn't the deep black of night but a featureless void.
"Who's doing this?" he shouted.
The whisper came again, closer this time.
"You chose this. You wanted perfection."
Ethan woke the next morning, but this time, the day wasn't perfect. The cracks in the facade were larger now—Anna's voice echoed unnaturally, her movements jerky and mechanical. The barista's face flickered like a glitching screen.
As he walked downtown, the buildings began to dissolve into static, revealing a dark, endless void beyond. The whispers were louder now, forming words:
"Stay in the loop, Ethan. Don't fight it."
But he did. He ran, pushing past the glitching edges of the world, deeper into the void. There, he saw them—shapeless, writhing entities watching him with countless glowing eyes.
"You're ours now," one of them hissed.
Ethan screamed as the void collapsed around him, dragging him back into the day's beginning.
Ethan's memories began to surface in fragmented flashes. He remembered sitting in a sterile white room, signing a contract. A representative from a company called EternaLife Solutions had promised him the "perfect life."
"You'll live your best day, forever," the representative had said. "No pain, no suffering—just happiness."
He hadn't realized what that truly meant.
The loop reset, but it wasn't perfect anymore. Ethan now saw the cracks everywhere—the soulless eyes of his wife, the unnatural silence between scripted events, the oppressive whispers in the shadows.
He knew he was trapped, forever reliving a facade of happiness while something monstrous fed on him from the depths of the void.
And as the birds chirped their perfect tune, Ethan began to wonder if he would ever wake up.