The streetlight overhead buzzed softly, its yellow glow casting elongated shadows across the cracked sidewalk. Sarah walked alone, arms crossed, the sleeves of her denim jacket pulled down over her hands. The air was still, almost unnaturally quiet for this part of the neighborhood. She glanced once over her shoulder, but the street behind her was empty.
From across the block, half-shielded behind a parked car, Mia watched.
This wasn't Sarah's usual route home.
It was one Mia had planned.
The detour had been subtle. A misplaced flier, a sign taped to a lamppost suggesting roadwork, a "shortcut" mentioned by a classmate earlier that day—nudged gently into place.
Sarah had taken the bait.
Mia gripped the corner of the car's frame. Her chest tightened with each of Sarah's steps.
Because two blocks down, on her normal path, her father would have been waiting.
Instead, Sarah moved steadily under the moonlight, the edges of her shadow keeping pace beside her. Her hair fluttered slightly with the breeze, and her boots struck the pavement with calm, deliberate rhythm.
The whole street had a frozen quiet, like a held breath. A cat darted across a yard and vanished behind a trash can. From a far window came the soft flicker of a TV left on too long.
Mia followed from a distance, silent.
She tried not to think about what almost was.
Sarah turned down a narrow side street lined with chain-link fences and tall hedges. The moon caught in the puddles left over from yesterday's rain, reflecting fractured light.
Mia scribbled in her notebook as she walked:
Intervention: Route diversion.
Target: S.H.
Threat: J.H., probable confrontation.
Outcome: Averted.
Time: 8:43 PM.
She paused.
Looked up.
Sarah paused too, her head tilting slightly. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
Mia ducked behind a trash bin, breath held.
After a moment, Sarah continued walking. She hadn't seen her.
Relief flushed through Mia's body, but it didn't last.
She tried to recall the name of the street.
She looked up at the green sign mounted on the corner post: Rosewood.
Right?
She flipped back two pages.
In the earlier plan, she had written: Route turns left on Maple, follows Arbor to Fourth.
Not Rosewood.
She checked again. The name blurred. For a moment, she wasn't sure if it said Rosewood or Ridgewood.
She blinked hard.
Memory slip. Twice in 60 seconds. Log under MB-Level-3.
She took another step forward, tightening her grip on the notebook.
The streetlamps flickered slightly. She glanced up. No birds, no wind. Just that subtle warping. She looked down again.
Mia could still feel the afterimage of the other possibility—that Sarah had turned right instead, walked down toward the intersection where her father often parked his truck.
But that hadn't happened.
She made sure of it.
They reached the final corner before Sarah's block.
Sarah slowed, as if sensing the nearness of home. Her pace became hesitant, her shoulders lifting.
Mia held back, waiting.
Sarah glanced at the corner mailbox, then walked past it. The tension in her frame eased.
Safe.
Mia exhaled.
And then she heard it.
Two voices.
She couldn't see them, but they were close—neighbors. Around the side of a porch.
"Didn't that happen yesterday?" one said.
"No," said the other. "I'm sure it was this morning. The trash truck came right after."
"You're wrong. I remember the sun was barely up when I got that notice."
Mia froze.
She wrote, slowly:
Discrepant recollection among bystanders.
Event timing in dispute.
Trigger: passive TimeRipple.
She underlined it twice.
She didn't linger.
Sarah was already at her front gate.
The porch light flicked on as she stepped inside.
Mia stood at the edge of the alleyway, the moon behind her.
Watching the house, the street, the crack in time she had quietly repaired.
She turned the page in her notebook.
Question: Did Sarah look back at the alleyway?
She wasn't sure.
She thought she might have.
But when?
Mia closed the notebook and stood there a moment longer.
A moth circled the streetlight. Her own breath had begun to mist in the chill.
She stepped back into shadow, and felt the delay.
Like a hand tugging memory out of order.
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled note.
It read: Intervention scheduled. Execute at 8:35.
She checked her watch again.
It was 8:50.
Had she been early? Late?
She hadn't written this note today. The ink was too dry.
She flipped it over. On the back, in her own scrawl: Avoid Rosewood. Risk overlap.
She stared at it.
Rosewood. The street Sarah had walked.
She wrote in the margin of her notebook:
Contradictory directive located. Timeline residue confirmed.
She added another line:
Ripple confirmed active during intervention. Secondary echoes possible. Watch mailbox.
Then she looked across the street once more.
Sarah's window glowed.
And Mia—for just a second—felt like she'd been here before.
Not last week. Not last year.
Before.
She turned and walked away.