At 3:00 A.M., his phone screen lit up in the darkness, like an eye suddenly opening.
Arthur jolted awake from a light sleep, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number, with the location listed as “Unknown.”
He hesitated for a few seconds, his finger hovering over the red hang-up button. But an inexplicable intuition drove him to press the green answer button and turn on video at the same time.
The screen lit up, revealing nothing but pitch blackness—only the faint outline of curtains fluttering in the breeze was visible.
“Hello?” Arthur’s voice was hoarse.
After a few seconds of dead silence, a faint rustling sound came through the video, as if fabric were brushing against the microphone. Immediately afterward, a face moved closer to the camera.
Arthur’s blood ran cold.
It was himself.
To be precise, the “Arthur” in the video was lying on the very bed he was currently in, with his back to the camera, breathing steadily, seemingly fast asleep. And the camera angle was, surprisingly, a bird’s-eye view from the corner of his bedroom ceiling.
Arthur sat up abruptly in bed and looked up at that corner—it was completely empty, with nothing there at all.
He stared tremblingly at his phone screen. The “Arthur” in the video was still lying with his back to the camera, motionless.
“Who are you?” Arthur growled into the phone, his voice cracking with fear.
The image on the screen suddenly shook slightly, as if someone had picked up the phone. The camera flipped, focusing on the room’s window. Arthur recognized that window; it looked directly out onto the 24-hour convenience store on the street corner, where the neon sign was now flickering with a faint blue light.
The perspective shifted again, and the camera focused on the mirror.
Reflected in the mirror was not Arthur’s current face—twisted with terror—but a man in pajamas, his expression calm. That man was smiling at the camera, his eyes revealing a weariness and sense of relief that Arthur had never felt before.
“You’re finally awake,” the man in the mirror said. His voice sounded exactly like Arthur’s, but his tone was unusually calm. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”
Arthur felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. He tried to hang up the phone, but his fingers were stiff and wouldn’t obey him.
“Look out the window,” the man in the mirror said.
Arthur instinctively turned his head toward the bedroom window. Outside, it was pitch black—no neon lights from the convenience store, just the dead silence of the building across the street.
“That’s not right…” Arthur muttered to himself. “There should be lights outside my window…”
“That was you three years ago,” the man in the mirror said softly, “The you who was still anxious about the project, sleeping only four hours a day, and surviving on coffee and antidepressants. That version of you died at 3 a.m. three years ago.”
Arthur froze. Memories flooded back like a burst dam. He remembered that 48th consecutive hour of overtime, the excruciating pain in his chest, and the moment he collapsed at his desk.
“Then I am…”
“You are the part that was left behind,” the man said, pointing at the ceiling. “I am your subconscious—I’ve been hiding in this rift in time all along, bearing the pain you were too afraid to face. But now, it’s time for you to wake up.”
The video call suddenly cut off. The screen went black, revealing Arthur’s pale face.
The room was deathly silent.
Arthur sat stiffly on the bed, his back soaked in cold sweat. He gasped for breath, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat. Was it a dream? It had to be a dream.
With trembling hands, he turned on the bedside lamp; the warm yellow light instantly dispelled the darkness. He got up and walked to the window, pulling back the curtains.
Outside, the convenience store on the corner was still lit, its neon sign flashing a familiar blue glow.
Arthur let out a long sigh and smiled wryly. It was indeed a hallucination caused by exhaustion from working overtime. He turned to go back to bed, but his gaze inadvertently fell on the digital calendar on the nightstand.
The red numbers stood out starkly against the darkness.
November 14, 2023.
Arthur froze in place.
He clearly remembered that today was 2026.
He snatched up his phone; the screen lit up, showing 3:05 a.m. And in the corner of the notification bar, a single line of unread system text lay quietly:
“Time remaining until your ‘Memory Reset’ service expires: 10 minutes.”
Arthur stared at those words and suddenly felt a sense of calm he’d never experienced before. He put down his phone, lay back down in bed, and closed his eyes.
It turned out that some dreams don’t require waking up.
