Zaruma didn’t change. Not in any way that made sense.

  The market was in the same place: dusty tarp roofs, iron parts hanging like ornaments, traders bartering with glass eyes and batteries. But people moved differently today… or was it the same way ?… They spoke with words that should have been familiar.

  But this time they sounded too familiar .

  Kazeem walked through the square, eyes sweeping over every face. A girl he didn’t know called out to him by name, like yesterday .

  A man who usually ignored him offered dried meat for free, like yesterday.

  The guard with the limp on the east post? He was walking fine… like yesterday.

  or is it today ? He could remember.

  The 9th that he lived was confusing enough to make him remember everything.

  the uncomfortable feeling that made him got to the tower was here again, the same.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  but stronger this time .

  Something was off.

  His mother spotted him and waved him over, sweat glistening on her dark skin, hair braided tight. “What are you doing here? You never come to the square this early.”

  “I thought I did.”

  She gave him a look. “Still dreaming those strange dreams again?”

  “No. Not this time.” He hesitated. “Mama… what’s today again?”

  “The 9th.”

  “And yesterday?”

  She frowned. “The 8th. Are you feeling alright, Kazeem?”

  Kazeem nodded slowly, but the weight in his chest said otherwise. He remembered waking up this morning. But he also remembered yesterday, and in that yesterday, this morning had already happened.

  the Deja-vu was too strong this time.

  Something rewound.

  Something was wrong with time.

  He returned to the barracks, locked the door behind him, and stood in silence.

  If this was a dream, it had weight. He could feel the dust in his lungs, the heat in his neck, the tremble of his heartbeat.

  If it wasn’t a dream, then—

  Then what the hell was happening? He thought

  He picked up a rusted nail and scratched a mark into the stone wall. One deep line.

  A record. A test.

  He sat. He waited.

  By nightfall, the same storm came again, the same way.

  The sky cracked with thunder. The vines writhed outside the gates. And Kazeem’s father returned with a wounded scavenger over his shoulder, just like before.

  “Same wound,” Kazeem whispered to himself.

  He stared at the man’s burned leg. Same placement. Same blood pattern. Same look of agony.

  This wasn’t coincidence.

  This was repeat.

  That night, Kazeem didn’t sleep. He watched the wall until morning.

  The storm passed.

  And the day began again.