Saturday arrived with a reluctant light that sounded to stretch sluggishly over the megacity, conservative in its intrusion, as if testing whether Arthur Bellweather was truly awake or simply featuring. He stirred beneath the wastes, eyes opening to the familiar gleam of the alarm timepiece, its ticking steady and unvarying. “ Good morning, ” it said, calm yet pertinacious. Arthur moaned, stretching his branches designedly. “ Is it ever not morning for you? ” “ Morning is a state of occasion, ” the alarm timepiece replied. “ And responsibility. ” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, the bottom solid beneath him, though he moved

Friday morning arrived like an unanticipated plot twist in the else predictable narrative of Arthur Bellweather’s week. He awoke with a launch, not because of the alarm, which sat faithfully blinking on the nightstand, but because he realized he'd actually slept through his dreams without interruption, a rare and suspicious circumstance. The alarm timepiece ticked steadily, unimpressed, as if noting that he'd eventually admired the meter it had so strictly executed. “ Good morning, ” it said. Arthur moaned, stretching with deliberate care. “ Why do you always sound like a judge? ” “ Observation does n't carry judgment, ” the alarm

By Thursday morning, Arthur Bellweather had grown cautiously confident in his routines, though every morning carried the same subtle undercurrent of suspicion that he might have been caught in an elaborate trick. He awoke before the alarm, as always, eyes flickering open with the awareness that time itself was patient but exacting. The alarm clock sat on the nightstand, softly glowing, its ticking steady and observant. “You are awake,” it said. Arthur exhaled, rubbing his eyes. “I am. No commentary needed.” “I am noting continuity,” the alarm clock replied. Arthur swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, careful not to disturb the

By Wednesday morning, Arthur Bellweather had grown suspicious of his own cooperation with time. He awoke before the alarm, again, with the strange feeling that something was watching him—not menacingly, not even judgmentally, but with a steady, calculated patience that made him twitch in ways previously reserved for horror movies and tax audits. The alarm clock sat on the bedside table, blinking softly, calm, observant, like a referee who had seen too many fouls but remained impartial. “You are awake,” it said. Arthur groaned, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t need to hear that.” “You are noting patterns,” the alarm clock replied. Arthur frowned.

By Tuesday, Arthur Bellweather was no longer fighting time, which worried him more than when he had been openly at war with it. He woke before the alarm again, not startled this time, but alert in the quiet, unsettling way of someone who felt prepared. The ceiling looked the same, the room smelled the same, but something in Arthur’s chest had shifted, a subtle click, like a gear settling into place. The alarm clock sat on the bedside table, its display dim, its ticking steady, observant, waiting. “You’re awake,” it said. Arthur exhaled. “Don’t sound surprised.” “I am noting a pattern,” the alarm clock replied. Arthur sat up,

By Sunday evening, Arthur Bellweather had developed a dangerous new habit confidence. It arrived still, slipping into his posture, uncurling his shoulders, persuading him that maybe, just maybe, he understood how time worked now. He stood in the kitchen preparing regale at a reasonable hour, humming vocally, checking the timepiece not with fear but with mild curiosity. The alarm timepiece rested on the counter, angled just enough to suggest mindfulness, its steady ticking filled with the subdued tolerance of commodity staying for a mistake. “ You’re veritably relaxed, ” the alarm timepiece observed. Arthur smiled. “ I’ve grown. ”

By the third successive morning of promptitude, Arthur Bellweather began to suspect that reality was setting him up for commodity. He woke before the alarm, eyes snapping open at six fifty- eight with the startled alertness of a man who had accidentally wandered into someone differently’s routine. For a moment he lay veritably still, harkening to the apartment

That night arrived with an air of dubitation as if darkness itself had heard rumors about Arthur Bellweather’s bedtime reform and was eager to witness the disaster firsthand. The living room lights were bedimmed to what Linda called “ sleep-friendly air ” and what Arthur called “ the lighting of an interrogation room for tired people. ” The settee had been cleared of its usual archaeological layers of snack wrappers and unlettered correspondence, the TV was out

By the time morning decided to arrive duly, it did so with all the confidence of a cat knocking a glass off a table and pretending it was an accident. The sun crept through the curtains in thin, hypercritical stripes, illuminating the battleground known as Arthur Bellweather’s bedroom, where socks lay like fallen dogfaces, books lolled open in countries of untreated study, and the alarm timepiece sat on the bedside table with the rigid

By the time the sun climbed high enough to peer directly through the gap between the curtains, Ravi had reached a new phase of consciousness, one where he was technically awake but spiritually still asleep, his body moving on instinct alone, guided by a deep and ancient belief that if he shuffled slowly enough, time itself might feel sorry for him and pause. He stood in the middle of the room, toothbrush in one hand, alarm clock in the other, staring at both as if they were two rival lawyers waiting for him to choose sides. The toothbrush dripped foam onto his shirt. The alarm clock stared back, silent but smug, its digital face displaying