The café was empty.
Except for the sound of a spoon stirring tea—slow, rhythmic, deliberate.
Like someone timing something only they could hear.
He sat in his usual corner, staring at the window.
His thoughts weren't here.
They were still trapped in the dream…
still stuck at 12:12…
still hearing her say,
"We've met before… just not in this life."
He took a sip.
The tea was cold.
He didn't remember ordering it.
"You keep coming back here.
Same seat. Same confusion.
You don't really recall me, do you?
The voice came from across the table.
He looked up—
A man in his late 30s, sharp eyes, half-smiling.
Like someone who had watched everything unfold… many times.
"Excuse me"
You forget me, but I do not forget you.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who escaped… and came back to warn you."
The words were calm. But they pierced like thunder.
"What do you mean escape?"
"The loop."
"You know about the dreams?"
They're not dreams.
They're… breadcrumbs.
Pieces of the truth your mind left behind each time you looped."
His breath caught.
"Why me?"
The stranger leaned in.
"Because you started it.
And only you can end it."
He sat in stunned silence.
Everything inside him screamed run.
But he couldn't move.
"This café?" the stranger continued.
"It was where you made the choice.
The first loop began right here.
The girl… the decision… the consequence."
"What choice?"
"You'll remember soon. But I'll warn you now—
remembering comes with pain.
And every time you get close to the truth…
something tries to stop you."
Just then, a loud crash.
The lights flickered.
The café door slammed shut—on its own.
Outside, time… paused.
Everyone. Everything. Frozen.
He turned to the stranger.
"What's happening?"
"A glitch," the man said, eyes wide.
"They know you're waking up."
"Who's 'they'?"
The ones who keep you here.
The ones who feed off unfinished loops.
The ones who rewrite your memories.
And you've just triggered something they don't want you to see."
Time resumed.
But the stranger…
was gone.
No cup. No chair pulled out. No sign he'd ever been there.
Just one thing remained—
A napkin, folded neatly.
He opened it with shaking hands.
Four words written in shaky black ink:
"Ask her about 12:12."