THE MAN WHO ALREADY KNEW
815 Words
By morning, the name on the death certificate had changed back.
Wesley Carter.
Same file. Same pages. Same signature.
Like nothing had ever happened.
Like Ellis hadn’t stared at his own name on the line that said “Deceased.”
He didn’t tell anyone.
What could he say? That the paper had rewritten itself? That reality blinked for a second and almost replaced a dead man with him?
They’d take his badge.
Maybe even his gun.
And maybe they’d be right.
He stood under the shower for longer than usual, letting the water scald his skin, hoping pain would burn away whatever was burrowing under it.
It didn’t.
He went to the only place open before 6 a.m. — a roadside diner off I-72 that served burnt coffee and reheated hash browns to cops, truckers, and the occasional insomniac.
The waiter, Kizu, gave him a familiar nod but didn’t ask questions. He never did.
He sat in the corner booth. Watched the rain streak across the window. Watched his reflection flicker and shift behind the glass.
Was that a twitch in his eye?
Had his reflection just blinked out of sync?
He looked away.
When the coffee came, he wrapped his hands around the mug like it was the only warm thing left in the world.
That’s when he noticed the man in the next booth.
Wiry. Mid-40s. Thick glasses. A ratty green coat with a patch that read “KOWALSKI.” The man was watching him, expression unreadable.
Ellis stared back.
After a few seconds, the man raised his cup slightly.
“Been a while,” he said.
Ellis blinked. “Do I know you?”
The man smiled without warmth. “You did. Once. Maybe again soon.”
Ellis looked at him harder. “Have we met?”
“Depends which time you mean.”
That stopped him cold.
Kowalski leaned forward. “You’re seeing it, aren’t you? The cracks. The loops. Things showing up where they don’t belong. Words on things that shouldn’t talk back.”
Ellis didn’t respond.
Kowalski took a bite of his toast like this was all normal.
“It starts slow,” he said. “Little fractures. Wrong name on a file. Seeing yourself on a camera. Dreaming things before they happen.”
Ellis’s pulse thudded in his ears. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve been you.”
“What?”
“Not exactly. But close enough. Same role. Same loop. Different version. Different city. Different face. Doesn’t matter. You get close to the edge long enough, and the machine starts showing you the seams.”
“What machine?” Ellis asked.
Kowalski just smiled. “You already know.”
Then he stood.
He dropped some cash on the table and turned to leave, but paused beside Ellis’s booth.
“Ask her about the pocket watch,” he said quietly.
“Who?”
Kowalski nodded toward the window. “Your next body.”
And then he was gone.
The next body
It came in over the radio just after noon.
Single male, mid-thirties. Found dead in the back alley behind a hardware store on 5th and Madison. Throat slit. Fresh kill. No ID.
Ellis was already behind the wheel before dispatch finished the report.
By the time he got there, the scene was swarming.
Officer Yuen peeled the tape for him. “We got another one,” she said grimly. “Same as Carter. No wallet. No phone. Clean kill. But…”
“But what?”
“Check his hand.”
The man was lying in the alley, curled sideways like he’d fallen mid-step. Blood pooled under his neck, dark and thick. But his right hand was clenched.
Ellis knelt beside the corpse and pried it open.
Inside was a pocket watch. Old. Silver. Ornate.
He flipped it over.
Carved into the back: REMEMBER.
Inside, the watch wasn’t ticking. The hands were frozen at 3:17.
And behind the glass, scratched into the face of the clock itself, were three initials:
E.G.
His.
He didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t even go home.
Instead, Ellis returned to the precinct, slipped past the tech desk, and accessed the digital archives. He searched Case #417B again — Carter’s death report from the crash.
This time, he zoomed in on a detail he hadn’t thought to check before.
The crash scene photos.
One of them — a wide shot from the ridge overlooking Hollow Creek — showed the accident in the distance.
But in the bottom right corner… standing next to the tree…
Was a silhouette.
Not clear. But tall. Wearing a coat.
Looking directly at the camera.
Ellis enhanced the photo as best he could. Grainy, pixelated.
But not enough to hide the truth.
It was him.
Not now him. Not the version at the scene.
A second Ellis.
Watching.
Waiting.
- Writer
