The coat was red.

Not a bright red. Not a fire truck red. It was the color of dried blood. Or rust. Or old wine. I remember the shade. I remember it vividly. It was the only thing that made sense in the room.

The room was white.

Sterile white.

Institutional white.

The walls hummed. A low, electric thrum. It vibrated in my teeth. In my bones. I sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm. Cold. It smelled of bleach and antiseptic.

I was a scholar.

I had been a professor of history. A historian of cycles. I wrote about repetition. About the inescapable return of the repressed. I believed in structure. In narrative. In the linear progression of cause and effect.

I was wrong.

The door opened.

Dr. Aris walked in.

He was tall. Thin. His movements were precise. He wore a grey suit. It was perfectly tailored. It did not wrinkle. It did not crease. It was static. Like a photograph. Like a memory.

He carried a tray.

On the tray was a glass of water. And a pill.

The pill was white. Round. Smooth. It looked like a pearl.

"Drink," he said.

His voice was soft.

It was not a command.

It was a fact.

Like gravity.

Like death.

I looked at the water. The surface was still. I saw my reflection. I looked tired. My eyes were dark. My skin was pale. I looked like a ghost. Or a corpse.

"I am not thirsty," I said.

My voice sounded thin.

It sounded far away.

Dr. Aris smiled.

It was a small smile.

It did not reach his eyes.

"You are," he said. "Always."

I drank.

The water was cold.

It burned my throat.

I swallowed the pill.

It tasted of nothing.

It tasted of silence.

The room changed.

The white walls pulsed.

The hum grew louder.

I felt a pull.

A physical pull.

In my chest.

In my gut.

It was like a hook.

It was like a chain.

It was pulling me backward.

Into the dark.

Into the past.

I saw a house.

It was old.

Wooden.

It sat on a hill.

The wind howled.

The windows shook.

I was a child.

I was seven years old.

I was in the attic.

The attic was dark.

It smelled of dust. And mold. And old paper.

I was hiding.

From the sound.

The sound was below.

In the kitchen.

My mother was screaming.

Not with anger.

With fear.

With pure, unadulterated terror.

I crawled to the hatch.

I looked down.

The kitchen was empty.

But the door was open.

The door was open.

And the wind was blowing in.

But there was no wind.

The door was opening and closing.

Opening and closing.

Opening and closing.

It was a rhythm.

A mechanical rhythm.

Click. Whir. Click. Whir.

My mother was not there.

My father was not there.

No one was there.

But the door kept moving.

I watched it.

For hours.

For days.

I did not know how long it was.

Time did not move.

Time stood still.

The door opened.

The door closed.

I knew then.

I had been there before.

I knew this house.

I knew this attic.

I knew this door.

I had watched it a thousand times.

I had watched it in every life.

In every death.

The realization hit me.

It was not a thought.

It was a blow.

It was a physical force.

It crushed me.

I was not unique.

I was not special.

I was a loop.

I was a record with a scratch in the groove.

I was stuck.

The present day rushed back.

The white room.

Dr. Aris.

The red coat.

I looked down at my hands.

I was wearing the red coat.

It was draped over my arms.

It was heavy.

It was warm.

I touched the fabric.

It was rough.

It was real.

I had not been wearing it before.

I had been in my hospital gown.

Now I was in the coat.

I looked at Dr. Aris.

He was standing by the door.

He was watching me.

His eyes were closed.

His head was tilted back.

He was breathing deeply.

He was listening.

Listening to what?

To the hum?

To the silence?

I stood up.

My legs were weak.

I gripped the edge of the bed.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Where is what?" Dr. Aris asked.

His voice was calm.

It was distant.

"The door," I said. "The red door."

Dr. Aris opened his eyes.

They were blue.

Cold blue.

Like ice.

"There is no red door," he said.

There is no red door.

There is no red door.

There is no red door.

The words echoed in my head.

They were a mantra.

A lie.

I knew it was a lie.

I could feel it.

The coat pulled at my shoulders.

It was tightening.

It was constricting.

It was not clothing.

It was a cage.

It was a skin.

It was the skin of the thing that was coming for me.

The hum stopped.

The silence was absolute.

It was deafening.

I heard my own heart beating.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was fast.

It was frantic.

It was trying to escape.

It was trying to break the rhythm.

But it could not.

It was part of the loop.

It was part of the machine.

I looked at the coat.

The red fabric was moving.

It was rippling.

Like water.

Like smoke.

It was alive.

I tried to take it off.

I pulled at the sleeves.

They would not come off.

They were fused to my arms.

They were growing into my flesh.

I screamed.

But no sound came out.

My mouth opened.

My throat vibrated.

But there was no voice.

There was no sound.

There was only the hum.

It returned.

Louder now.

It was a roar.

It was a storm.

It was the sound of the world ending.

Dr. Aris stepped forward.

He reached for me.

His hand was gentle.

It was warm.

It touched my cheek.

It was the only real thing in the world.

"It is almost time," he whispered.

"I don't want to go," I thought.

But I could not say it.

I could not think it.

The thoughts were being erased.

One by one.

My name.

My past.

My future.

They were being wiped away.

Like chalk on a blackboard.

Like dust in the wind.

I was fading.

I was disappearing.

I was becoming the coat.

I was becoming the red.

I was becoming the silence.

I looked at Dr. Aris.

I saw him clearly.

For the first time.

He was not a doctor.

He was not a man.

He was a mirror.

He was me.

In a previous life.

In a previous loop.

He was the one who had broken free.

Or was he the one who had failed?

His eyes were filled with pity.

With sorrow.

With love.

He knew.

He knew the truth.

The truth was this.

We are not saved.

We are not healed.

We are not fixed.

We are recycled.

We are repurposed.

We are used.

And then we are discarded.

And then we are used again.

And then we are discarded again.

It is infinite.

It is eternal.

It is inescapable.

I looked at the coat.

It was spreading.

It was covering my face.

It was covering my eyes.

The darkness came.

It was soft.

It was warm.

It was like being held.

It was like being loved.

It was the only comfort I had ever known.

I let go.

I stopped fighting.

I stopped struggling.

I stopped screaming.

I accepted it.

The acceptance was sweet.

It was like honey.

It was like wine.

It was like death.

The room vanished.

The white walls dissolved.

The hum faded.

I was in the attic.

I was a child.

I was seven years old.

I was hiding.

The sound was below.

In the kitchen.

My mother was screaming.

Not with anger.

With fear.

With pure, unadulterated terror.

I crawled to the hatch.

I looked down.

The kitchen was empty.

But the door was open.

The door was open.

And the wind was blowing in.

But there was no wind.

The door was opening and closing.

Opening and closing.

Opening and closing.

It was a rhythm.

A mechanical rhythm.

Click. Whir. Click. Whir.

I knew this moment.

I had lived it a thousand times.

I would live it a thousand more.

I looked at the door.

It was red.

It was bright red.

It was the color of blood.

It was the color of life.

It was the color of death.

It was the color of everything.

I smiled.

I could not help it.

I smiled.

I knew the ending.

I knew the beginning.

I knew the middle.

I knew it all.

And it did not matter.

It never had mattered.

The door opened.

The door closed.

I watched.

I waited.

I was ready.

I was always ready.

The hum started.

The loop began.

Again.

And again.

And again.