The smell was what woke her.

Sour, like something old and neglected, mixed with the faintest metallic edge. It filled her nose before her eyes even opened, and when she finally blinked awake, Mira could feel her stomach turn.

The air seemed thick with it, pressing against her skin like the world had wrapped itself too close.

She sat up, her room strange and unfamiliar in a way she couldn't pinpoint. The pale blue walls were there, just like always, her posters of moons and stars scattered across them.

But something about the color felt... wrong; like it was just a shade too cold, or maybe just a little too bright, vibrating almost imperceptibly in the corner of her vision.

The digital clock on her nightstand blinked 8:34, then flickered to 8:33, and then back again. Mira blinked at it, trying to clear the fog from her brain, but the numbers continued to twitch and fumble.

8:34.

8:33.

Then 8:36, skipping over the minutes entirely.

Voices filtered in from the other side of her bedroom door. Her parents, murmuring softly, just like any other morning. She could hear her mother's laugh, low and gentle, but it was stilted somehow, as if she was forcing herself to remember what laughter was supposed to sound like.

As Mira rose from her bed, the floorboards beneath her feet felt cool and slightly damp, as if someone had mopped the whole room but forgotten to let it dry. She rubbed her eyes, expecting the strange sensations to fade, but they only grew sharper.

The air smelled heavier, more metallic. She stepped carefully across the room, her steps quiet, but each movement felt as though she was underwater, moving through a world that was too thick, too still.

The hallway was empty, save for the familiar rows of family photos that lined the walls. Mira had walked past them every day for as long as she could remember, but now they seemed oddly unfamiliar.

Her father, in a photo from a few years back, seemed to stare at her a beat too long, his smile fading slightly, his eyes narrowing in a way she’d never noticed before.

In the living room, her mother was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands resting in her lap, her face turned toward the window. The sunlight filtered in weakly, casting the room in a yellow haze that looked almost sickly. Mira's father was by the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal, though he didn't look up as she entered.

"Morning," Mira said softly.

Her mother's head snapped toward her, as if startled, and she blinked, a slow, deliberate movement.

"Good morning, sweetheart." The words felt off, like her mom was reading from a script, each syllable carefully placed. Her eyes seemed a little too wide, her smile a little too stiff.

Mira's father turned from the stove, his eyes flicking over her briefly before he gave a single nod, then turned back, his movements strangely precise, almost mechanical.

She sat down at the table, the chair creaking beneath her. The oatmeal her father served looked normal enough, but as she brought the spoon to her lips, she caught a whiff of that metallic tang again, strong and unpleasant. She hesitated, watching as her parents quietly picked at their own food, neither of them seeming to notice the smell.

Something felt wrong, like a splinter in her mind. But Mira pushed it aside, taking a cautious bite. The oatmeal was thick and sticky, coating her tongue with a taste she couldn't quite place.

Not bad, exactly, but just... strange.

It clung to the roof of her mouth, and she had to swallow twice to clear it.

The morning moved forward with a strange sluggishness. Time felt as if it was warping around her, twisting and stretching until she couldn't be sure if it had been five minutes or an hour. Her parents moved through the house in slow, methodical movements, their voices low, each sound blunted like they were underwater.

Finally, Mira couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed her backpack and slipped out the door, the familiar weight grounding her as she walked down the front steps. The air outside was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else she couldn't quite place. The world felt muffled, as if some invisible barrier separated her from everything around her.

The town looked almost normal as she walked down the street, but there were small differences that tugged at her mind, each one sharp enough to make her pause. The grass was a shade too dark, almost black, and the houses seemed to lean just slightly, as if they were pressing in on her.

A dog barked somewhere nearby, the sound warping into a low, mournful wail that echoed unnervingly in the quiet.

And the people….

They walked slowly, moving in strange, gliding steps; their faces blank; their eyes fixed straight ahead.

No one met her gaze.

No one even seemed to notice her as she passed, their expressions as empty as mannequins.

At the corner of Maple and Fifth, she spotted a boy standing alone. He looked no older than her, with shaggy brown hair and a faint, almost serene smile. His eyes, however, were wide and unblinking, locked onto her with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine.

"Did you bring the flowers?" he asked, his voice oddly metallic, each syllable stretching just a bit too long.

"Flowers?" Mira echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. The word felt strange on her tongue, unfamiliar and heavy.

The boy tilted his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 'For the funeral," he said, his voice soft, almost gentle, as he gestured to a building across the street. The door was open, a faint, shimmering fog seeping out.

When she turned back to ask him what he meant, the boy was gone. Only the lingering scent of something sweet and slightly rotten remained, hanging in the air like a memory just out of reach.

Mira felt a strange pull toward the building, her feet moving before her mind had a chance to catch up. The door creaked open as she stepped inside, the dim light casting shadows that twisted and writhed along the walls. The room was empty, save for a single coffin in the center, draped in a faded cloth that looked as though it had been bleached by time.

A soft sound echoed from within the coffin, a faint rustling that sent a shiver down her spine. She took a hesitant step closer, her heart pounding, each beat loud and sharp in the stillness.

When she reached the coffin, Mira felt a chill wash over her. The lid was slightly ajar, just enough for her to see a hint of pale fabric and something dark curling around it. She leaned forward, her fingers brushing the edge, and in that moment, a hand shot out, cold and clammy, gripping her wrist with a strength that left her breathless.

The hand belonged to the boy, his eyes wide and unblinking as he looked up at her from within the coffin. His smile was gone, replaced by an expression of desperation, of fear so intense it seemed to vibrate off him.

"Don't let them forget me," he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the words etched themselves into her mind, leaving a cold, hollow ache in their wake. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone, his hand slipping through her fingers like smoke.

Mira stumbled back, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The room was empty again, the coffin closed, and the strange fog that had filled the room was gone, leaving only the lingering scent of something decayed.

The world around her seemed to shift, the walls rippling as if they were made of water, bending and twisting until she could barely recognize the room. She turned and ran, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallways as she fled the building, her heart pounding, the boy’s words still ringing in her ears.

When she burst out onto the street, the town was silent, the world around her eerily still. The people she had seen before were gone, the streets empty, the buildings looming in the misty air like silent sentinels.

She didn't stop running until she reached her house, the familiar sight a small comfort amidst the strange, twisted reality she had found herself in. But when she stepped through the front door, she froze.

Her parents were sitting in the living room, their faces blank, their eyes fixed on a spot just above her head.

They didn't move, didn't blink, didn't even seem to breathe.

The room was silent, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, each tick stretching out, each second feeling like an eternity.

Mira took a shaky step forward, her voice trembling as she called out, "Mom? Dad?"

But they didn't respond.

They remained still; their faces expressionless; their eyes glassy and lifeless. And in that moment, Mira knew, deep in her bones, that something had changed. That she was alone in this strange, twisted world, a place where time stretched and twisted, where reality itself seemed to slip and fracture.

And somewhere, in the dark corners of her mind, she heard the boy's voice, soft and haunting, whispering the words that would echo in her thoughts for the rest of her life.

"Don't let them forget me."

***

1.595 words