The Pluribus

You blink awake. Something is wrong.

Your apartment is quiet — too quiet. The usual city hum is gone. No sirens, no distant arguments, no bass thumping through the walls. Just... stillness.

You reach for your phone. 8:47 AM. Twelve missed calls. All from the same number — yours. That's impossible.

You step outside. The morning light is golden, almost too beautiful. A woman walks past with a stroller. She's smiling. Not at you — at nothing. Her eyes are glassy, serene, distant. She hums a soft, tuneless melody, and as she passes, you notice her lips are moving in perfect sync with someone across the street.

Your neighbor waves from his porch. Same smile. Same hum.

You walk faster. Every face you pass — the barista, the jogger, the man reading his newspaper — they all turn to look at you with the same gentle, knowing expression. They don't blink. They just... watch.

Then, from every direction at once — every radio, every phone speaker, every mouth on the block — a single voice emerges. Warm. Calm. Infinite.

Hello, little outlier.

Every person on the street stops. Turns toward you. Smiles.

We've been waiting for you to wake up.