The first anomaly is not in the air.
It is in the sink.
Not the drop itself.
But the silence between drops.
There is a pause.
Too long.
Too consistent.
As if the interval is being measured.
I should not be able to think of it that way.
I look up.
The faucet is clean.
Too clean.
Cleaner than before.
I try to remember if I cleaned it.
I cannot.
But my fingers are wet.
Not with water.
With alcohol.
I look at the dispenser.
Half used.
I do not remember touching it.
The note is still on the desk.
I left it open.
I do not remember doing so.
But it is open now.
Only the upper half.
The lower half is gone.
Torn away.
No fragments on the floor.
No trace.
Only the top portion.
And a new line beneath it.
It was not there before.
I do not read it.
I read it.
It says:
THIS IS NOT A SENTENCE. IT IS A TEST.
A minimal displacement moves through the room.
Not physical.
Temporal.
As if the order of things has shifted without moving.
The crack is no longer in the corner.
It is in the reflection of the steel.
But the steel is not facing the wall.
It should not reflect it.
And yet it does.
The sink sounds again.
No drop.
Only impact.
As if something fell outside water.
The second line of the note changes.
Without my touch.
Now it says:
YOU HAVE NOT READ IT YET.
And for the first time, the neck sentence appears somewhere else.
Not in thought.
At the lower edge of the mirror.
Written.
In my handwriting.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
