The button for floor twelve glowed. It always glows. But tonight, when the doors opened, I stepped into a bar called The Rusty Nail in a town called Garnet, Oklahoma. It was just after two in the morning, the air smelled like spilled beer and burnt coffee, and the jukebox was playing a song I almost recognized. The bartender was the only other person there—a man in a white shirt, sleeves rolled, polishing a glass. He didn't look surprised to see me. He just asked what I was drinking. And as I sat down, I noticed the clock behind him was stopped at 2:17. Not broken. Stopped. The second hand was still ticking, but it never moved past the seventeen. I stayed until last call. Or what should have been last call. But the clock never changed, and the bartender kept pouring. By the time I left, I couldn't remember why I'd been in that building in the first place. It's a quiet kind of horror, the kind that settles into your bones like cold. The kind that makes you wonder if you ever really left.

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