The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, the sound cutting through the stillness like a metronome marking time in a life that felt stalled. Catherine sat hunched over her workbench, the dim, flickering light above casting her shadow across the cluttered space. The mess had grown over the years—spools of wire tangled like neglected thoughts, half-disassembled radios, and tools strewn about in organized chaos. It wasn't just her workspace; it was her refuge.
She exhaled slowly, the sharp scent of solder and metal filling her lungs. The small, battered radio in front of her was stubborn, its innards exposed like a puzzle she'd yet to solve. But she wasn't ready to give up—not on this, at least.
Her fingers moved with a practiced precision born from years of necessity. This wasn't a hobby; it was a survival skill. Catherine had grown up in a small town where everything seemed to break at once—radios, televisions, the ancient washing machine her mother cursed every Sunday. Her father had left early, and with him went the luxury of calling a professional when something broke. So Catherine had learned to fix things, one painstaking trial-and-error session at a time.
It started with the family radio. She could still remember the way her mother had sighed that day, staring at the silent box as though its broken state mirrored her own exhaustion.
"Can you do anything with it, Cathy?" her mother had asked, her voice soft but hopeful.
She'd been twelve at the time, armed with nothing more than a screwdriver and blind determination. It had taken hours, her fingers blistered and her patience threadbare, but when the static finally gave way to the crackling sound of a distant broadcast, the pride in her mother's tired smile had made it all worth it.
From then on, fixing things became her role in the family, her way of keeping the world from falling apart—at least in the small ways she could control.
As the years passed, it also became her escape. While her classmates dreamed of leaving their small town for college or bigger cities, Catherine found comfort in the hum of circuitry and the click of gears. Machines were simpler than people. They didn't lie, didn't judge. They either worked, or they didn't. And when they didn't, she could make them right.
But tonight, something felt off.
Her brow furrowed as she twisted the last screw into place. The workshop, usually a comforting cocoon, felt heavier somehow. The air pressed against her skin, too thick and too still. Even the soft hum of the small desk fan sounded muted, distant. She tried to shake it off, but the sensation clung to her like static.
Her eyes flicked to the glowing clock on the wall: 12:17 a.m. She hadn't realized how late it was.
"Almost there," she muttered, her voice breaking the silence. She adjusted a connection, her hands steady despite the unease gnawing at her.
The faint blue glow of the radio's display flickered to life, pulling a smile from her lips. "Gotcha."
She leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders easing. Fixing things had always been a way to quiet her mind, to keep the memories of her childhood and the weight of her present at bay. Even now, years later, she found herself drawn to the familiar rhythm of it, especially on nights like this when the rest of the world felt too loud and too far away.
Her phone buzzed suddenly on the corner of the table, the screen lighting up the darkened room. She hesitated before reaching for it. A text from her sister.
Cathy, we need to talk. It's important.
Catherine frowned, her stomach twisting. She hadn't spoken to her sister in weeks, not since their last argument about the state of their mother's house. Her sister thought they should sell it, cut their losses and move on. Catherine disagreed. That house wasn't just four walls and a roof—it was where their family had held itself together, even when it was falling apart. She wasn't ready to let it go, even if it meant taking on more repairs than she could handle.
"Not tonight," she muttered, pushing the phone aside. She wasn't in the mood for another guilt trip.
The cold night air hit her like a wall when she stepped outside, the dampness clinging to her skin. Rain had left the streets slick, the streetlights reflecting in the puddles like fragmented constellations. Catherine pulled her coat tighter around her, the fabric rough against her fingertips.
She wasn't far from the bus stop when she heard it—the distant screech of tires, followed by the wail of a horn. She turned her head instinctively, just in time to see two cars racing toward her, their headlights cutting through the darkness like twin blades.
Her breath hitched, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. She leapt to the side, her boots skidding on the wet pavement as the cars whipped past, the wind from their speed slamming into her. She stumbled, her heart hammering in her chest.
"Jesus," she gasped, pressing a hand to her racing heart.
She paused for a moment, steadying her breathing. The cars vanished into the night, and the street was quiet again. She took another shaky step toward the bus stop, her pulse slowing. It was over. She was fine.
Or so she thought.
A low, thunderous groan echoed from above. Catherine glanced up, her brow furrowing. There was nothing unusual—just the night sky above the overpass ahead. The sound grew louder, like the rumble of heavy machinery.
And then it happened.
The truck plummeted, metal gleaming in the streetlights as it fell, a surreal image that didn't register until the impact shook the ground. The shockwave sent Catherine sprawling to the pavement, her body slamming hard against the wet asphalt.
For a moment, all she could feel was pain. It throbbed through her limbs, sharp and overwhelming, as if her body had been split apart.
She groaned, trying to push herself up, but her arms buckled. Her vision swam, the world around her a hazy blur of light and shadow.
The truck loomed nearby, its massive frame mangled and smoking. Catherine's breath came in short gasps as she stared at it, her mind too foggy to process what had happened.
All she knew was that she hurt, and she had no idea how she was still alive.