He didn't remember falling asleep.
But he remembered the dream—every time.
Because it was always the same.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
A dim yellow light flickered from an old bulb.
Walls covered in clocks—each frozen.
No ticking. No time.
Just silence.
And then—her voice.
"You left me here," she whispered.
He turned.
She stood there—hair flowing, eyes glassy with sorrow.
"I waited… in every loop."
And then the clocks would shatter.
Every single one.
All at once.
And he'd wake up—heart racing, eyes wet.
This was Dream Number 37.
He counted them now.
Because they were more than dreams.
They were messages.
That morning, something changed.
He walked down the street—still shaken—when he saw it.
A broken clock.
In a shop window.
Same crack on the glass. Same time: 12:12.
The exact clock from his dream.
He stepped closer.
Inside the shop, a girl rearranged shelves.
She turned.
It was her.
But not exactly.
This version of her had shorter hair. No sadness in her eyes.
But something in her face still said, "You've known me."
He stood there, unsure.
Time seemed to slow again.
Until she looked up, directly into his eyes, and smiled.
"You're here," she said.
"I'm… sorry?"
"You always come back around this time."
His breath caught.
"Do I know you?"
She nodded.
"Not yet. But we've met before… just not in this life."
The world spun.
Not outside—but inside him.
How could she know?
How could she speak the exact thing he feared?
Was she from the dream?
Or was the dream from her?
He walked away, but something tugged at him
like a thread of time had wrapped itself around his soul.
And the dream returned.
"You left me here… in every loop."
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He was afraid of Dream Number 38.
Afraid it might reveal more than he was ready to remember.