In the town of Meadowridge, every day feels strikingly familiar—not in a dull way, but like the comforting rhythm of a favorite song on repeat. The sun rises at the same soft angle, the bakery opens with the same warm scent of cinnamon rolls, and neighbors greet each other with smiles that never seem to fade. It’s as if time itself has settled into a gentle routine, wrapping the town in a sense of peace and predictability. Occasionally, small oddities break the pattern—a cat showing up where it shouldn’t be, a stranger who seems to know your name—but they pass as quickly as they come, adding just a touch of magic to the otherwise steady flow of life. No one questions the rhythm too much. Why would they? In Meadowridge, sameness doesn’t feel like a trap—it feels like home.

Inside a cozy cottage tucked at the edge of Meadowridge, Billie moved through the house with quiet purpose. The morning light streamed through the windows, casting golden patterns on the wooden floor as she swept, dusted, and folded linens with practiced hands. Cleaning wasn’t a chore for Billie—it was a ritual, something that grounded her when everything outside felt a little too perfect, a little too still. She hummed softly to herself, a tune she couldn’t quite place, one that seemed to be stuck in her head every morning like clockwork. As she wiped down the kitchen counter, she glanced outside and paused. The same boy on the red bike rode past, same time, same wave. Billie frowned just slightly, not out of fear or worry—just a quiet wonder. "Didn’t that happen yesterday?" she murmured, then shook it off and returned to her cloth and her calm, letting the rhythm of her day settle back in.