James noticed the change at 8:02 a.m.
It was small. Almost meaningless.
Ada stopped mid-step on the sidewalk and frowned.
"This already happened," she said.
James's breath caught. "What did?"
She looked around, confused. "That car." She pointed. "It's about to honk. Twice. Pause. Then once more."
James felt the blood drain from his face.
The car honked.
Twice.
A pause.
Then once more.
Ada stared at it, her hand slowly rising to her mouth. "I didn't imagine that."
James swallowed hard. "Ada—"
"I didn't imagine that," she repeated, louder now. "I knew it."
Pedestrians moved around them, unaware that something fundamental had just cracked.
Ada turned to him slowly. "This is what you feel. Isn't it?"
James nodded. "Yes."
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but awe. "So this is remembering."
They continued walking, but Ada's pace was slower now, cautious, as if the ground itself might betray her.
At the café, she didn't sit down immediately.
She stared at the table. "This is where I spill my coffee."
James opened his mouth to warn her—
—but the cup tipped from her fingers and splashed across the wood.
Ada laughed sharply. "Okay. That's not funny anymore."
James reached for her hand. She didn't pull away.
"James," she said quietly, "how far does this go?"
He hesitated. "Far."
By midday, the memories came in fragments.
Not full scenes. Not clear timelines.
More like impressions.
Ada paused at a crosswalk. "Someone pushes me here."
James's grip tightened on her arm. "Not today."
She nodded slowly. "Not today."
At lunch, she stared at her reflection in the window and whispered, "I look different sometimes."
James said nothing.
At 3:19 p.m., she flinched suddenly and pressed her fingers to her temple.
"Ada?" James asked.
"There's a room," she said. "White walls. No windows. I'm screaming, but no sound comes out."
James went cold.
"That's not from the loop," he said.
She looked at him sharply. "How do you know?"
Because I've never seen it, he thought.
And that terrified him.
The first real break happened at 6:42 p.m.
Ada stopped responding.
They were walking through the park when she froze, eyes unfocused, lips slightly parted.
"Ada," James said. "Hey. Look at me."
She blinked once.
Twice.
Then she spoke—
in a voice that was not quite hers.
"You shouldn't have brought me this far."
James's heart slammed. "Ada?"
Her gaze sharpened. "This awareness isn't linear. It overlaps."
"What does that mean?" he asked.
She frowned, as if surprised by her own words. "I don't know why I know that."
She staggered.
James caught her before she fell, lowering her onto a bench.
Her breathing was shallow. "I can feel them," she whispered.
"Who?"
"The versions of me that didn't make it."
James closed his eyes.
"They're loud," Ada continued. "They keep asking why this one gets to live."
Tears slid down her cheeks—not from sadness, but overload.
James knelt in front of her. "Listen to me. You're here. You're alive."
"For now," she said. "But this memory—" She gripped his sleeve. "This one shouldn't exist."
"What memory?"
She looked straight at him.
"You choosing not to save me."
The words sliced through him.
"I never—"
"You did," she said softly. "Once. You hesitated."
James's hands trembled. "I was trying to understand the loop."
"And I died because of it," she finished.
Silence swallowed them.
Then Ada whispered, "That version of me hates you."
James's chest ached. "Do you hate me?"
She shook her head weakly. "No. But I don't know how long that will last."
Night came fast.
Too fast.
By 10:58 p.m., Ada was quieter, withdrawn, as if conserving strength.
James stayed close, watching every breath.
At 11:12, she spoke again.
"If I reach full recall," she said, "the loop collapses completely."
James nodded. "Yes."
"And if I don't," she continued, "it will keep killing me."
"Yes."
She smiled faintly. "So either way… something ends."
James said nothing.
At 11:30 p.m., the pressure returned.
The air thickened. Lights flickered. The familiar hum of instability crawled through the walls.
Ada squeezed his hand.
"I remember writing something," she said. "A message."
James stiffened. "Where?"
She closed her eyes. "Not here. Not yet. But it's meant for you."
"For me?"
"Yes." Her voice softened. "In case you go too far."
James swallowed. "What does it say?"
Her eyes opened.
"'If you're reading this,'" she said slowly,
"'it means you finally chose the loop over me.'"
James felt sick.
"I don't want to choose," he said.
Ada looked at the clock.
11:46 p.m.
"You already are," she replied.
The second hand ticked forward.
11:47.
Nothing happened.
No reset.
But Ada screamed.
She clutched her head, collapsing against him as memories flooded in all at once.
Faces. Deaths. Variations.
James held her desperately. "Stay with me. Please."
Through clenched teeth, she gasped,
"I remember… the end."
His heart lurched. "What end?"
She looked up at him, eyes glassy but clear.
"The loop doesn't break when I remember," she said.
"It breaks when you do."
The lights went out.
Somewhere far away, glass shattered.
And inside Ada's mind, a memory that should never have existed finished writing itself.