Mondays had a special way of being unbearable. Not because the day itself had any special power, but because it stole the simple joy of waking up naturally. Instead, it always began with that awful sound: the default alarm, a noise designed to rip the soul out of any pleasant dream one had sought refuge in. 

Why did everyone use the same one? Phones offered countless options, yet people rarely bothered to change it. Maybe because it was easier to leave it as it was. Maybe because the human mind associated change with effort, and effort was too expensive a currency to spend on something as trivial as an alarm tone. Until, of course, the sound became unbearable. Until it turned into a Pavlovian trigger of misery. Just hearing those first few notes, even outside of the morning, was enough to send the heart racing and set nerves on edge. 

Perhaps that was why no one dared to use a song they liked. No one wanted to ruin their favorite melody by associating it with something as discouraging as waking up too early on a Monday morning. 

But for Elara, there was no need for an alarm. 

"Elara!" 

The scream tore through the house like thunder. Then came the pounding on the walls, violent and relentless, as if someone were trying to tear down the entire house with their bare hands. 

Elara shrank under the covers. Not again. 

She had woken up from yet another night of nightmares. It was always the same: endless labyrinths closing in on her, suffocating her, while monstrous figures lurked in the shadows. Running. Always running. But no matter how fast she moved, the horrors behind her never tired, never stopped. 

Yes, she dreamed of grotesque things. But sometimes, the real nightmare was the one waiting for her when she opened her eyes. 

"Elara!" 

The banging grew louder. Her mother's voice was a force of nature, shaking the walls as if she could tear them down with sheer will. In all the years since the town had been founded, since the first well was dug two centuries ago, there had never been a woman as dramatic and overbearing as her mother. 

Elara groaned and buried herself deeper under the blankets, leaving only her nose exposed to the cool air. It was an old habit, one she had never outgrown. There was something comforting about being completely covered, as if the thick, soft fabric offered some kind of magical protection. As if nothing could reach her while she remained hidden under the duvet. 

If a murderer broke into the house, surely it would never occur to them to check under the covers. Right? It was a flawless survival strategy. A ten out of ten. Foolproof. 

Except, of course, against her mother. 

"Get up!" she roared again. 

Elara clenched her teeth and forced one eye open. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting long golden streaks across her small, cluttered room. Dust particles floated lazily in the beams, indifferent to the chaos beyond her door. 

She rolled onto her side and groped for her phone. The screen lit up. 7:08 AM. 

It wasn't even that late. 

She could have slept for two more minutes. 

And two minutes on a Monday morning… meant everything. The difference between feeling rested and feeling like a walking corpse. A concept no one fully understood, yet everyone instinctively felt. 

Elara sighed, rubbing her face before reluctantly pushing the blankets down. The air outside the covers was freezing, sending a shiver down her spine. Maybe if she stayed still long enough, her mother would give up. 

Wishful thinking. 

"I know you're awake! Don't make me come in there!" 

She absolutely would. And that was far worse than just getting up on her own. 

With another groan, Elara sat up, running a hand through her tangled hair. Her room was exactly as she had left it the night before: a disaster. Clothes draped over the chair, books stacked precariously on her desk, half-empty water bottles lined up on her nightstand like forgotten soldiers. 

A perfectly normal disaster zone. 

She placed her feet on the floor and stretched, her joints protesting with cracks. The morning routine began, slow and reluctant. Bathroom. Splash cold water on her face. Stare at herself in the mirror and question the meaning of life for about ten seconds. Brush her teeth. Avoid looking at her phone as much as possible. 

But reality waited, ready or not. 

Downstairs, the smell of burnt toast floated through the house. A clear sign that her mother was already in full motion. Elara trudged down the stairs, each step a battle against the urge to turn around and crawl back into bed. 

"Finally!" her mother huffed, arms crossed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" 

Elara exhaled through her nose. 

"It's 7:15." 

"Exactly! Practically noon!" 

Elara didn't bother responding. There was no way to win this battle. Instead, she headed to the kitchen and opened the fridge in search of something edible. 

"You need to stop staying up so late," her mother continued, as if reading from a script she had memorized years ago. "It's bad for your health. It makes you sluggish." 

Elara bit her tongue to keep from snapping back. Instead, she grabbed a carton of orange juice and poured herself a glass. 

"I have classes today. It's not like I was planning to sleep all day." 

"You could have fooled me." 

Elara ignored her, sipping her juice. The kitchen was warm, golden morning light spilling through the windows, reflecting off the cups and plates stacked haphazardly in the drying rack. A normal morning. A normal Monday. 

And yet, something felt off. 

A strange tension vibrated in the air, a weight in her chest that had nothing to do with exhaustion. It was the same feeling she had woken up with, lingering, like the ghost of a dream she couldn't quite remember. 

Her mother's voice faded into background noise as Elara gazed out the window. The town outside was silent. Too silent. 

For a moment, she wondered if—just maybe—she was still dreaming.