He watched the second hand of the clock.
It ticked.
But it didn't move.
Tick.
Still on 12.
Tick.
Still on 12.
He blinked. Rubbed his eyes.
The clock laughed in silence, mocking his confusion.
Outside, the world acted normal.
People walked by. Cars passed. A bird landed and flew away.
But something about the air was wrong.
Still. Heavy. Like a memory wrapped in fog.
He moved through the day like a ghost in his own skin.
He went to work. He smiled. He laughed.
And deep inside, something whispered:
"We've done this already."
He ignored it. Tried to stay grounded.
But then—she walked in.
Same yellow kurti. Same bag.
Same strand of hair tucked behind her ear.
Same laugh.
He didn't know her.
But he knew her.
Her presence was a crack in his reality.
"Excuse me," she brushed past him.
And just like that, his chest tensed.
The same scent.
The same voice.
The same moment from a dream he never remembered—
until now.
He didn't respond. Couldn't.
He looked at her like she held the answer to a question he had not yet posed.
Afterwards, when he was alone in the cafeteria ,she passed by again, and this time—looked at him.
Really looked.
"You okay?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Do I… know you?"
She paused. "I was going to ask you the same."
They both froze.
Two souls unsure if this was a beginning or a continuation.
Or maybe—just maybe—a return.
He went home that night and stared at the clock again.
Tick.
Still on 12.
The loop wasn't starting.
It had never stopped.