Fragmented

Chapter 1: Routine Shadows

Simon Harper had always found solace in the predictability of his life. The alarm clock rang at precisely 6:30 a.m., its shrill sound pulling him from the depths of a fitful sleep. He stretched, then rolled out of bed, feet landing on the cool wooden floor. As he shuffled to the bathroom, he glanced at the framed photos on his bedside table: a vacation snapshot with friends, a candid of him and his younger sister at her wedding, and a rare family portrait.

The bathroom was a sanctuary of routine—his toothbrush, toothpaste, and shaving cream neatly aligned. Simon performed his morning rituals with the precision of someone who found comfort in repetition. He meticulously brushed his teeth, washed his face, and ran a razor over his stubbled chin. Each motion was automatic, like the gears of a well-oiled machine.

Breakfast was equally predictable. Simon poured himself a bowl of oatmeal, stirred in a spoonful of honey, and settled at the kitchen table with his newspaper. The aroma of brewing coffee filled the room, a soothing backdrop to the daily ritual. He skimmed through the headlines, mentally noting the day's weather forecast. A glance out the window confirmed it would be another gray and drizzly September morning.

By 7:15 a.m., Simon was out the door, his briefcase in hand. He walked the short distance to his car, a modest sedan that had served him well for years. The drive to work was uneventful—he followed the same route every day, greeted the same traffic lights, and passed the same landmarks. As he approached his office building, he nodded to the familiar faces in the surrounding shops and cafes.

The office was a haven of stability. Simon worked as an account manager at a mid-sized firm. His desk was organized, papers neatly stacked, pens and stapler in their designated spots. He greeted his co-workers with the same practiced smile, exchanged pleasantries, and settled into his daily tasks.

Around noon, Simon met his close friend and colleague, Mark, for lunch at their favorite café down the street. The café was a cozy refuge from the office, with its soft music and the comforting smell of fresh bread. Mark, always cheerful, recounted anecdotes from his weekend, while Simon listened with a warm, appreciative smile. Their conversations were predictable, often revolving around work or casual banter.

As the afternoon dragged on, Simon felt a faint, inexplicable sense of unease. It was subtle—just a fleeting moment of discomfort. He shook it off, attributing it to the dreariness of the weather or perhaps a late night of too little sleep. He focused on his tasks, determined to maintain his steady rhythm.

Back at home, Simon settled into his evening routine. He cooked a simple dinner, watched a few episodes of his favorite TV show, and read a book before bed. As he turned off the lights and prepared for sleep, the faint unease returned, a lingering shadow he couldn't quite place.

Simon pulled the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes, trying to dismiss the feeling. The familiar comfort of his bed enveloped him, but as he drifted off, a fleeting thought crossed his mind—something wasn't quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

And so, Simon's day ended as it always did, with the hum of the city outside his window and the promise of another routine-filled day to come. Yet, beneath the surface of his predictable life, the first stirrings of disquiet were beginning to take hold.

Simon drifted into a restless sleep, his dreams filled with fragmented images and disjointed voices. The usual serenity of his nights was marred by an uneasy sense of being watched. He stirred several times, only to find himself in the same comforting yet confining cocoon of his bed.

The following morning, the routine began anew. The alarm clock's jarring tone cut through his grogginess, and Simon repeated his morning rituals with the same precision. As he glanced at the clock, he realized he had overslept. His heart quickened slightly, but he managed to stay on track, dressing quickly and skipping his usual breakfast in favor of a hastily made sandwich.

The drive to work was more hurried than usual. The drizzle had turned into a steady rain, blurring the landscape outside his window. The familiar landmarks seemed to dissolve into the grayness, giving Simon an unusual sense of disorientation. He shook his head, attributing the feeling to lack of sleep.

When Simon arrived at the office, he found an unexpected note on his desk. The handwriting was unfamiliar, and the message was brief: "They're watching you. Be careful." Simon stared at the note, feeling a chill run down his spine. He dismissed it as a prank, perhaps from a colleague with too much time on their hands, but the unease lingered.

The workday proceeded with its usual rhythm, though Simon found himself distracted. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling that someone was observing him, even though no one in the office seemed out of the ordinary. The note weighed heavily on his mind.

At lunch, he met Mark as planned, but the conversation felt more strained than usual. Simon was preoccupied, his responses clipped and distracted. Mark noticed his friend's discomfort and asked if everything was alright, but Simon brushed it off with a half-hearted smile.

After lunch, Simon returned to the office and found his desk rearranged—his papers shuffled, his pens scattered. He felt a surge of frustration but quickly rationalized it as a result of a clumsy cleaning crew or perhaps his own absent-mindedness.

The rest of the day passed without incident, but Simon's thoughts were consumed by the note and the strange feeling that had taken hold of him. As he prepared to leave for home, he noticed something else out of place: a small, unfamiliar object on his desk—a keychain with a symbol he didn't recognize. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, but it offered no clues to its origin.

That evening, as Simon returned to his apartment, he found himself restless. He tried to focus on his usual activities—cooking, watching TV, and reading—but the sense of unease was unshakable. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he felt so unsettled. The rain continued to patter against his windows, a relentless reminder of the day's discontent.

As he settled into bed, the faint echoes of his disrupted dreams crept back into his mind. The disjointed voices and fleeting images seemed to taunt him, leaving him with a lingering sense of dread. Simon lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling that something was profoundly wrong, though he couldn't identify exactly what it was.

With a deep breath, he turned over and forced himself to sleep, hoping that the coming day would restore the predictability he so desperately craved. Little did he know that the cracks in his seemingly perfect routine were only the beginning of a much deeper unraveling.