The platform tiles are cold under my bare feet now, having forgotten to check them until this very second. A rush of air hits me as the train doors finally click shut behind me, sealing out the last echo of that rhythmic, human heartbeat we had just shared. I look down at my shoes again. They look normal. Just canvas and laces. No dust motes dancing in a way that suggests they are trying to form words.

I walk toward the exit stairs, descending one step at a time. Each click of my heel on the concrete is distinct, isolated from any other sound. The staircase feels like it was built specifically for me, its width just right, the handrail solid metal against my palm, warm where my grip has been before cooling back to room temperature in seconds. It doesn’t hum with secrets. It just supports weight and friction, exactly as physics dictates it should.

Outside, the city is waking up properly now, or maybe I’m finally seeing it wake up for the first time since the “glitch” started. People are stumbling out of subway stations in a drowsy grog, rubbing sleep from their eyes, reaching for keys that drop into pockets with satisfying clunks. No one pauses to wonder if those keys might be hiding a universe. They just use them to open doors and walk inside.

A bakery sign flickers on across the street, casting a warm orange glow onto the wet pavement where puddles still catch the light of the dawn sky. Steam rises from the vents near the curb in straight, vertical lines—pure vapor, carrying no shapes, no faces, just heat escaping into cool air. I watch it for a moment longer than necessary, letting the simplicity of it settle into my chest like dust motes settling on a windowsill.

“Good morning,” someone says beside me.

I look up. It’s an old man pushing a cart full of recycling bins, his face lined with the deep grooves of a life spent sorting things that don’t matter individually but mean something in total. He doesn’t see the shadows in my coat pockets or the patterns I used to trace in the steam. He just sees a tired traveler stepping out into the light.

“Morning,” I reply, and the words taste like coffee and chestnut shells and fresh air. “You working?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, giving his cart a sharp push forward that rattles the metal bins with a sound so perfectly ordinary it almost feels loud. “Gotta get these to the depot before lunch rush.” He pauses, glancing at me with eyes that have seen too much but remember everything clearly. “You look like you’re carrying something heavy in your head today.”

“I am,” I admit, surprised by how easy the confession comes out now. No hesitation, no fear that it will trigger a cascade of magical consequences or reveal some hidden truth about my existence. Just an acknowledgment. “But I think it’s lighter than before.”

He nods slowly, as if this is the most logical conclusion to any conversation, and then continues pushing his cart toward the alleyway where he keeps them over night. The wheels squeak on the concrete—a sound of wear and tear, of use and purpose—and then silence returns to the street corner.

I turn back toward the bakery, feeling that strange pull in my stomach again—the one that feels like hunger, but also like fullness, as if I’ve already eaten every meal I’ll ever need simply by witnessing the world breathe around me. The air smells of yeast and burnt sugar now, mingling with the exhaust fumes and wet asphalt in a chaotic, beautiful stew that has no single scent to define it.

And then, just for a second, as I reach for the handle of the bakery door, my hand trembles. Not because something is wrong or dangerous is happening outside—but because everything feels so real, so intensely, overwhelmingly present that my body isn’t sure how to handle the magnitude of it. The metal door handle is cold and textured under my fingertips. The glass beside it reflects a streetlamp that is just light, not a keyhole waiting to be pried open.

I push the door open with both hands this time, stepping inside without looking for symbols on the floor or shadows in the reflection of the window behind me.