Out of Place
He was brushing his teeth when he realized the toothpaste didn't taste like anything.
Not mint. Not sweet. Not even like foam.
Just… texture.
He spit it out.
Stared at the sink for a moment too long.
The mirror above it was slightly fogged, even though he hadn't showered.
He wiped it clean.
His reflection looked fine.
Just fine.
He stared at it for a long time.
Waiting for something to move that shouldn't.
Downstairs, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He walked past the living room. Past the clock on the wall.
Then stopped.
He turned back to the clock.
It ticked.
Ticked.
Ticked.
But the hands weren't moving.
He checked his wrist.
No watch.
The kitchen smelled like toast.
But there was no toast.
Only a plate on the counter, crumbs neatly arranged as if someone had eaten and left just enough to be polite.
He looked in the fridge.
Nothing spoiled.
Nothing missing.
Every label faced forward.
He sat at the table.
There was a newspaper folded open to the crossword.
Several squares were filled in. Sloppy, rushed.
Others were blank.
All the clues were gone.
Only one sentence was printed on the page:
"WHO DID YOU THINK YOU WERE?"
He closed the paper slowly.
Behind it sat a photograph he hadn't noticed before.
Face down.
He turned it over.
It showed a boy standing in a hallway. Distant. Blurred. Face barely visible.
Behind him, there was a woman, eyes hidden in shadow.
The hallway in the photo was this house.
He recognized the wallpaper.
Except… there wasn't a hallway like that anywhere in this house.
He looked up.
And now there was a hallway where the kitchen door used to be.
Narrow. Flickering.
Just… there.
Waiting.
He stood slowly.
One step closer.
Then another.
The photo still in his hand.
He didn't remember taking it.
He didn't remember being it.
But the walls ahead looked familiar.
And the carpet in the hallway was covered in dirt.