I wake up precisely at 7:07 AM. Not 7:06, not 7:08. Seven is a lucky number, and I need all the luck I can get.

Before I step out of bed, I tap my left foot against the floor three times—one for luck, one for safety, and one to ward off anything lurking in the corners. I do the same with my right foot. Only then is it safe to stand.

The morning routine is strict. I brush my teeth with my left hand on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and my right hand on the other days. Balance is everything. Imbalance invites disaster.

I never, ever step on cracks. Everyone knows that rule, but for me, it’s not just about my mother’s back. Cracks are doorways, fractures in the world where bad things slip through. I don’t risk it.

At work, my desk is a fortress of charms. A rabbit’s foot for fortune, a bent nail to repel curses, a small dish of salt to absorb negative energy. I have a four-leaf clover laminated in plastic, found on a childhood trip to Ireland. The inked initials on the back are fading, but I remember the moment I picked it up. I remember the rush of certainty—this will keep me safe.

I never sign my name in red ink. Red ink means death.

I never whistle at night. Whistling calls the spirits.

I never leave a hat on a bed. That one’s harder to explain, but I don’t need an explanation. I just know.

People think I’m strange, but I don’t care. My rules keep me safe. They keep my world in order.

Then, one Tuesday morning, my alarm fails.

7:09 AM.

Panic grips my chest. It’s just two minutes, I tell myself, but my hands are already clammy, my stomach twisting. I tap my feet against the floor—one, two, three—but it feels wrong. Off-balance.

The day unfolds like a slow-motion car crash. My toothbrush slips from my hand. A coworker accidentally bumps my salt dish, spilling grains across the desk. I scramble to throw a pinch over my left shoulder, but the damage is done. My heart pounds.

At lunch, my pen runs out of ink. The only replacement? Red.

I don’t sign anything. I don’t write at all.

By evening, I’m exhausted from dodging fate’s invisible hands. When I step outside, the sky is a deep purple, the air thick with something I can’t name. A black cat watches me from across the street. It isn’t moving. It isn’t blinking.

And then it steps forward—crossing my path.

I freeze. My breath catches. My limbs turn to stone.

I know what happens next.

Somewhere, something shifts.

And the world, so carefully held together by my rituals, finally begins to break.