Ch. 4

  The chalk screeches against the board, dragging out a sound that feels too long, stretching through the silence of the room. It doesn't end naturally—it just stops, like a cut in a film reel.

  "Your next assignment," the teacher says, his voice even, deliberate. He does not speak loudly, yet the air around his words seems to compress, forcing everyone to listen.

  The classroom is frozen, but not in the way that feels ordinary. It is the kind of stillness that suggests something is waiting, watching. Carmen's fingers curl around his pen, though he does not remember picking it up.

  "A research report."

  His teacher, Mr. Luthair Rhyne, turns to face the class. His eyes are sharp, glassy, like reflections on water too deep to see through. The nameplate on his desk catches the dim light.

  Luthair. A name that means 'warrior of ghosts.'

  Rhyne. A river that carries everything but never keeps anything.

  Carmen doesn't know why that matters, but something about it sticks. Like a splinter in the mind. Mr. Rhyne picks up a piece of chalk, turning back to the board. His hand moves with unsettling precision, each letter too perfect, like they had always been there, waiting to be revealed rather than written.

  Déjà Vu – The Illusion of Repetition.

  "You are to interview several individuals and collect their experiences," Mr. Rhyne continues, his voice as smooth as something rehearsed. "Find the patterns. Find the inconsistencies. But most importantly—"

  He turns his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to land directly on Carmen.

  "Ask yourself... is it memory, or is it something else?"

  A pause. A heartbeat too long.

  Then, with no warning—

  —Carmen is walking.

  He hadn't expected to find them so easily. At first, the assignment felt impossible—where do you even start looking for people who've glitched through time? But then, like the world was listening, the names started coming to him. A passing conversation in the hallway. A muttered complaint at the café. A moment where he locked eyes with a stranger and just knew.

  It wasn't about searching.

  It was about noticing.

  Each name felt less like a discovery and more like something he had always known, tucked in the back of his mind, waiting to be remembered. And when he reached out to them, they agreed to talk.

  Every single one of them.

  Like they had been waiting for him, too.

  He doesn't remember leaving the classroom.

  But the hallway is already stretching before him, longer than it should be, the edges curving inward, closing in. The sound of his own footsteps echoes strangely, like the walls are repeating them a second too late.

  A list of names sits in his notebook. People who have felt it.

  That creeping sensation. That fracture in time. That whisper of—

  -"You've been here before."

  ________________________________________________________________________________

  1. Evelyne Caulder

  She is older. Not old, but old enough for her presence to feel stretched thin—like she exists between places. Her hands curl around a porcelain teacup, though she never takes a sip. The liquid inside is motionless. Carmen takes a sip of his own cup and-

  "It happened in my childhood," she says, stirring the tea without drinking it. Her voice is soft, but something beneath it feels fractured—as if the memory she is about to tell has split into too many pieces, each version just slightly different from the last.

  "I was walking home from school. The air smelled like rain, but it hadn't rained yet. Then I saw a woman... a girl... standing by the road."

  She hesitates, fingers tightening around the delicate handle of the cup.

  "She was wearing a long black coat. Nothing strange about that, right? But then she turned. And I saw her face."

  Silence. It stretches between them, uncomfortable, waiting.

  ...

  ...

  ...

  -?

  "It was me."

  Carmen blinks.

  "Not someone who looked like me. Not a coincidence. It was me—older, staring at my ten-year-old self with this look... like she knew me, like she was waiting for me to realize what I was seeing."

  The spoon in her tea clinks softly as she stirs.

  "And then—"

  She swallows, her throat working around the weight of something she can't name.

  "Then I was walking again. Like no time had passed. The road was empty. The woman was gone. But I knew. I knew she had been there. And worse..."

  Her voice drops, barely audible now.

  "I felt like I was supposed to remember why."

  She does not finish her tea, He drank his coffee, shivering and sweating with the cold cafe light.

  ________________________________________________________________________________

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  2. Adrian Holt

  Adrian is Carmen's age, but something about him feels off (unfortunately, as always)—like a song played a second out of sync. He sits across from Carmen in the dim light of the café, fingers drumming on the table. The rhythm is inconsistent. And its all on purpose.

  "Mine's not like the others," he says, his voice measured, watching for a reaction. "I don't get déjà vu. I get the opposite."

  Carmen frowns.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I wake up and everything feels new. Too new. Like I've never been here before, even though I know I have. My own house, my own street, my own reflection—it all looks wrong, like I'm seeing it for the first time... a reset."

  His fingers stop tapping.

  "But the worst part?"

  He leans forward uncomfortably close, lowering his voice.

  "People act like I was there yesterday. They talk about things I've done, places I've been, but I don't remember any of it."

  A pause.

  "Not even a little."

  The air between them shifts. Carmen grips his pen a tad tighter.

  "Like someone else was living my life, wearing my skin, and I just woke up to take their place."

  Adrian lets out a breath, his lips curling into something that isn't quite a smile.

  "Or maybe I'm the one who doesn't belong here."

  Carmen was silent. He felt the same before.

  "I'm sorry to hear that." He cuts.

  "Be happy~" Adrian sings-

  "I don't tell this to anyone, I know I'll forget it tomorrow."

  ________________________________________________________________________________

  3. Felix Mareaux

  Carmen's pen hesitates over the page, ink pooling into a single, unmoving dot. Across from him, Felix Mareaux grins like they're old friends. Like they've always been old friends. Like this isn't the first time they've met—even though Carmen can't recall ever speaking to him before.

  "So, déjà vu, huh?" Felix hums, tilting his head. "That's a fun little concept. Time looping in on itself, moments repeating like a scratched record... or maybe just a glitch in the universe's programming." He leans in, elbows on the table, fingers laced together. "Ever thought about what déjà vu really means?"

  Carmen exhales through his nose. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."

  Felix laughs, but there's something wrong with it. Like it's slightly out of sync, an echo of something that hadn't happened yet. "Well, you're asking the right person! Happens to me all the time. Sometimes I wake up and swear I've lived the whole day before. Like I'm walking through a script someone else already wrote."

  His fingers tap against the table. A slow, deliberate rhythm.

  "I used to think it was just my brain playing tricks on me," Felix continues. "But then... I met someone."

  Carmen glances up from his notes. "Someone?"

  "Yeah. Omega."

  The air shifts. Like the room itself exhales.

  Carmen blinks. "Omega?"

  Felix nods, casual, unfazed, like he didn't just say something that made Carmen's stomach turn. "She told me something interesting once. That déjà vu isn't just a feeling. It's a reset. Like a second chance. But not everyone gets to remember it."

  The words settle between them, thick and unshakable.

  Carmen grips his pen a little tighter. "And where is this... Omega now?"

  Felix's grin widens. "Oh, I have noooooooooo idea~"

  And then, just like that—just as Carmen starts to ask another question—Felix stretches, yawns, and walks away.

  -You should try doing that too. Not asking, try knowing when to walk away.

  No goodbye. No closure. Just gone.

  And when Carmen turns back to his notes, something is missing.

  He doesn't know what. But the page feels... emptier.

  Like something had been erased.

  ________________________________________________________________________________

  4. Elena Tanika

  The pen hovers over the page before touching down. A name written in careful, deliberate strokes.

  Across from him, she sits with an air of weightlessness, as if she is neither here nor anywhere at all. Elena Tanika does not fidget, does not blink too often, does not move unless she means to. Her eyes—if you could even call them that—are hollow, reflecting Carmen's face like glass, like doorways that lead somewhere else.

  She exhales slowly. "Déjà vu?" Her voice is smooth, level. Thoughtful. "Mm. I suppose I could say I've felt it before. More than once."

  Carmen waits, pen poised. But she does not continue.

  He clears his throat. "Would you mind describing it?"

  Elena hums, her fingers ghosting over the table's surface. And for a moment—just a moment—Carmen swears he sees it. A faint red glow, clinging to where she touched. So dim, so subtle, that if he blinked, he might miss it.

  "I think déjà vu is misunderstood," she says at last. "People believe it's a mistake in memory. A misfiring of the brain." Her gaze meets his, unblinking. "But what if it isn't?"

  Carmen shifts in his seat. "Then what is it?"

  A small, knowing smile. "A second attempt."

  The words sit heavy between them. Carmen watches her closely, but Elena does not elaborate. She only leans back, resting her chin against her hand.

  "Have you ever had the feeling that something should've ended differently?" she muses. "That a conversation could've gone another way? That maybe, if you had just done one thing differently, the outcome would have changed?"

  His grip on the pen tightens.

  Elena's fingers drum lightly against the table, and Carmen notices it again—that glow. Soft. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.

  Her voice drops lower. "Most people don't get a second chance. But some do."

  The air is colder now. The room feels smaller. Carmen swallows, unsure of why his chest feels tight. "And how do you know that?"

  A pause. Then, softly—

  "I just do."

  The silence stretches. Carmen looks down at his notes, at her name written neatly at the top of the page. But the longer he stares, the stranger it looks. As if the letters don't quite belong. As if, any second now, they might shift into something else.

  When he glances back up—

  Elena is already standing.

  "I think that's enough," she says simply.

  She doesn't ask if the interview is over. She decides. A director writing for the world.

  And as she walks away, her footsteps sound too familiar.

  Like he's heard them before.

  Carmen watches Elena disappear into the crowd, her presence vanishing as seamlessly as it arrived. Yet, something about her lingers—the faint red glow, the weight of her words, the way she seemed to know more than she let on. He presses his fingers against his temple, as if trying to iron out the creases forming in his mind.

  A second attempt. A second chance.

  It stays with him longer than it should. But the clock does not wait, and neither do his questions.

  He exhales, forcing himself back into the rhythm of reality. Another name. Another interview.

  Ravena Varner.

  He scans the area until his eyes land on her—too bright, too cheery, a little too perfect, like she's trying too hard to be something she isn't.

  He approaches, pen in hand, but before he can even say her name—

  She grins. "Déjà vu, huh? What a funny little thing."

  And just like that, the next conversation begins.

  ________________________________________________________________________________

  5. Ravena Varner

  Ravena is reluctant to speak. She presses her nails into her palms as she sits, staring at the floor.

  "Mine was at the lake," she finally says.

  Carmen stiffens.

  "I was standing at the edge. The water was clear—too clear. Like glass. I could see the bottom perfectly. The rocks, the ripples, even my own reflection."

  Her voice trembles.

  "And then I saw something move."

  Carmen doesn't breathe.

  "Not fish. Not waves. Me."

  She exhales sharply, her breath unsteady.

  "My reflection blinked," she says. "But I didn't."

  Carmen does not move.

  "It tilted its head," Ravena continues, "like it was looking at me the way I was looking at it. Like I was the one behind the glass. And then..."

  She hesitates.

  "It smiled."

  The word is quiet, but it hits like a ripple in deep water—spreading outward, stretching into something unseen.

  "I never went back to that lake," she whispers.

  "I don't think I ever will."

  Carmen flips through his notes.

  He reads them again. And again.

  But they don't feel like notes anymore.

  They feel like memories.

  Somewhere in the distance, the wind shifts.

  It carries the scent of water.

  Clear. Still. Waiting.

  And Carmen knows—

  -our little lake is next.