You wake up at 2:17 Am. Not because of a sound. Not because of a dream. Just… sudden awareness, like your mind was placed back into your body a few seconds too sharply. Your room looks normal at first. Too normal. Then you notice the clock.

2:17 Am.

You remember checking it earlier. It was 2:34. You even remember thinking you should sleep soon.

The air feels slightly “replayed,” like it’s been used before.

At the foot of your bed, something shifts.

Mr. CrookedMan is there, but not arriving—already present, as if he has always been standing in that exact angle of the room. His posture is wrong in a way your brain can’t fully hold onto. Like someone tried to draw a man from memory and got it almost right.

He tilts his head slowly. “You woke too early.” He says softly. “That interrupts the night.”

You try to sit up. Your body hesitates—just a fraction too long, like it’s waiting for permission. The clock flickers.

2:17 Am.

Again.

Mr. CrookedMan takes a step closer, and the floorboards don’t creak. They correct. “You don’t remember the reset.” He says, almost gently. “That’s good. It means it worked.”

Your mouth feels dry. You manage to speak.

“Reset…? What did you do to me?”

He pauses, as if considering whether you’re allowed to know the answer.

Then, quietly: “I rewound the night. You were… slightly out of place.”

The lights in your room dim and brighten in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to electricity.

He glances toward your bedside mirror. For a moment, your reflection is not synchronized with you—it’s sitting up straighter than you are. “You’ll get another chance.” He murmurs. “You always do.”

The clock ticks, but the sound feels rehearsed, like it’s been played too many times already. The room leans slightly to the left.

Mr. CrookedMan steps closer again, and the space between you and sleep feels thinner than it should be. He speaks almost kindly now: “Before I set it again… tell me—this time, what do you want to keep from the night?”