**Chapter 47: **
Atlas woke up with his left arm stuck to the floor.
Not stuck like glue. Fused. The skin from his elbow down had gone semi-translucent, and underneath it played the same five scenes on repeat.
A rainy bus stop. An empty apartment. The exact moment he told his last girlfriend it was over and meant it this time. The decision that no one would ever get close enough to matter again. The loop was quiet, but it pulled at him like a weak magnet.
He tried to stand. The arm dragged him sideways, toward the door where Elara had slept the night before. He caught himself on the table.
"Shit."
Elara stepped in from the next room, drying her hands on a rag. She stopped when she saw the arm. Her eyes narrowed, not in fear but in that focused way she got when something needed fixing.
"It's spreading," she said.
"It's not spreading. It's remembering." Atlas flexed his fingers. The translucent skin stretched, showing the bus stop scene again.
