Raka woke up with a stiff neck and a back that felt like it had been run over by a cement truck. Pale morning light filtered through the dusty window curtains, illuminating dust motes that danced in the stagnant air. He groaned, trying to remember why he’d spent the night on a thin rug that smelled like a mix of stale cheese and old sweat.Then, last night’s memories hit him like a freight train.The hologram. The black rose. The woman from the future. The toxic marriage.Raka scrambled up, his head throbbing. It had to be a dream—a caffeine-induced fever dream, he muttered, rubbing his temples. But as his eyes drifted toward his bed, which was usually a disaster zone of tangled sheets, he froze.The bed was perfectly made. It was so neat that the sheets didn’t have a single wrinkle. His desk, previously a graveyard of soda cans, now held only a glass of water and the small silver device he had seen the night before.Luna was standing in his cramped kitchenette. She had ditched the tr

The world flipped on its axis in a heartbeat. A visceral wave of nausea slammed into Raka’s stomach, as if gravity had unceremoniously ripped his soul from his body and shoved it back in upside down. His ears rang with a piercing, high-frequency hum before a heavy, absolute silence swallowed the room.Raka collapsed onto the floor, still clutching Luna. She felt impossibly light in his arms, almost like he was holding a fading mist. He glanced at the clock on the wall. The second hand was ticking normally, but the digital calendar on his desk told a different story.Three days were gone. They had simply vanished into a chronological black hole, triggered by nothing more than a sincere embrace.Luna? Wake up, Luna! Raka gently tapped her cheek. Her face, which had been deathly pale moments ago, now looked almost translucent under the flickering glow of the overhead bulb.I told you, Luna whispered, her voice sounding like the rustle of dry parchment. Her eyes fluttered half-open, dim a

There was no scent of black roses that morning. No sarcastic remarks about his sleeping habits greeted him, and no laundry had been magically cleaned and folded.Raka was jolted awake by the obnoxious blare of his phone alarm—a sound he usually detested, but today it felt ten times more grating because it signaled a return to his grim reality. He glanced at the other side of the bed. It was empty. The sheets were cold, looking as though they hadn't been touched in a decade.Luna? Raka called out, his voice thick and raspy with sleep.Silence. The only sound was the steady drip of a leaky kitchen faucet—tick... tick... tick—counting down the seconds as a creeping loneliness began to set in.Raka sat up and rubbed his eyes, disoriented. He walked into the kitchen, half-hoping to find a plate of burnt toast or even a cold glare from her. Instead, the dining table was coated in a thin layer of dust, save for a single empty plastic cup from the night before. On his desk, Luna’s silver devi

The morning light filtered through the cracks in the tattered curtains, casting long golden streaks across the floor of Raka’s apartment. The place felt wider now, not because the square footage had changed, but because Raka had finally started clearing out the towers of instant noodle cups and moldy design magazines. He realized that if he wanted to fix his heart, he had to start with the space he lived in.In the corner of the room, Luna was still fast asleep. It was the first time Raka had seen her sleep past her usual hour. She was curled into a small ball, arms wrapped tightly around a flattened pillow. Her face, usually so guarded and masked in secrets, looked remarkably innocent, though the deep circles under her eyes betrayed a hidden exhaustion. Raka approached her with feather-light steps, practically holding his breath. He caught a glimpse of the watch on her wrist, which lay resting against the blanket. 22:11:55:00. The numbers were motionless. Static.Is that a good sign

That morning, it wasn’t the sunlight that roused Raka, but the sharp, rhythmic pulse of pain at the tip of his finger. He opened his eyes to find a pristine white bandage wrapped around the wound—far too meticulous to be his own handiwork. He glanced at the empty side of the bed; Luna was already gone. The apartment was deathly quiet, though the atmosphere had shifted. The lingering stench of neglected trash had been purged, replaced by the sterile scent of disinfectant and the heavy, bitter aroma of dark coffee. Raka sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at his bandaged hand. The memories of the previous night came flooding back: the shattered remains of his mother’s glass, and the raw, suffocating urge he’d felt to scream in Luna’s face.Stop staring at that bandage as if it’s a medal of honor, Luna’s voice drifted from the direction of the desk.Raka turned. She was sitting there, clad in a sharp, formal charcoal-gray blazer, her hair pulled back into a severe, polished style. T