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