October 24th.
Arthur sat upright in bed the moment his eyes opened, breath held, heartbeat already racing. The familiar ache behind his eyes was there, but… dulled. Not erased, but quieter.
He glanced at his phone.
October 24, 2008. 6:44 AM.
Still the day. But the final loop? Maybe.
He moved like a machine: showered, dressed, skipped breakfast. There was no appetite in him, only vigilance. He hadn't slept more than two hours, afraid the universe might cheat him if he drifted too far from consciousness.
The house was silent.
His parents were still asleep.
He checked the driveway from his bedroom window.
The Taurus was there, just like always.
At 7:11 AM, he heard the garage door groan open. He held his breath. Waited.
Then—tires crunching. Not pulling away. Pulling in.
A service van.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
He rushed to the front window.
The van had the Barlow Tires logo stenciled on the side.
It worked.
He stepped back as his father opened the door and called out to the mechanic with a confused laugh, his mom peering over his shoulder in her robe.
Arthur didn't go downstairs. Not yet.
He waited, sitting on the edge of his bed, arms locked around his knees like a child hiding from monsters.
Forty minutes passed.
He heard the van pull away.
He heard his parents talking about how weird—but sweet—it was. How they thought maybe the shop was trying to build goodwill for the holiday season. "The tires do feel smoother," his mom said.
It took all his willpower not to sob at the sound of her voice.
Then came the moment that always haunted him: Departure.
He checked the clock. 9:11 AM. Much later than usual.
They were running behind schedule.
Maybe late enough.
Maybe…
The door closed. The engine started. He watched from the front window, lips trembling.
The Taurus backed out. Turned left.
And vanished around the corner.
He stood there, alone, in the stillness.
Then, slowly, he sat down on the steps.
He waited.
10:00 AM.
He paced the living room. Checked the news. Nothing yet.
12:00 PM.
He made himself tea and dumped it after a single sip.
2:00 PM.
Rain started. On schedule. Cold sheets falling from the grey sky. Just like every time.
4:00 PM.
He sat on the couch, eyes glued to the grandfather clock.
The second hand ticked like a countdown to detonation.
4:17 PM.
His hands gripped the couch cushions so tightly his knuckles went white.
4:18 PM.
The clock kept ticking.
No call.
No scream.
No shattering of the world.
He waited for the sobbing collapse, the sick weight in his stomach, the jarring reset.
It didn't come.
The grandfather clock ticked on.
4:25 PM.
Still nothing.
He whispered the time aloud, testing it, daring the world to reset around him.
It didn't.
7:22 PM.
Headlights swept through the window.
He was already on his feet when he heard the engine. Not daring to believe.
Then—keys jingling in the lock.
Voices.
Laughter.
The door opened.
"Artie?" his mom called. "We're home!"
His father followed, shaking off an umbrella. "Traffic was crazy. Got stuck behind some cop pulling over a truck with a swapped license plate. Jenkins' rig, I think. Took forever to sort out. Good thing we had new tires today—these roads are slick as hell."
Arthur didn't move.
He just stared.
His mother frowned. "Artie?"
He broke. Rushed to them, wrapped them both in a crushing hug, tears pouring from him with a violence he didn't know he was capable of. His mother dropped her purse, arms curling around him, confused and warm.
"You're here," he sobbed. "You're really here."
"Of course we are," his father said, voice tight with concern. "What's gotten into you?"
"I just…" Arthur shook his head, burying his face in his mom's shoulder. "I missed you."
They were alive. Whole. Laughing. Wondering aloud about the weirdness of the day.
And Arthur?
Arthur was free.
Or something close.
The loop hadn't restarted.
But his story?
It was just beginning.