Lance’s second morning at Greylock University dawned in a way that almost convinced him yesterday’s strangeness was just nerves and exhaustion. Sunlight filtered through the worn curtains of Room 317, casting beams where dust motes drifted lazily. The radiator clicked and hissed in its familiar rhythm. For the first time since arriving, nothing seemed out of place.
Reid had already left for early tennis practice, leaving his side of the room impeccably ordered. In contrast, Lance’s corner was already more lived-in—cluttered cables, a spare hoodie slung over his chair, and his tablet charging on the desk. He ran his hand over the refurbished Wacom’s surface, noticing a faint scratch. Was it new? He shook off the thought, feeling on edge due to clock discrepancies and unsettling déjà vu. Today, he decided, would be normal—just another day of classes without strange repeats or illusions.
The walk across campus felt ordinary. The morning air was crisp with the scent of freshly trimmed grass and distant coffee shops. The gargoyles atop Blackwood Hall appeared to rest in the early sun, and the clock tower—though he avoided staring too long—acted normally. His phone’s time and the tower bells aligned closely, within a margin likely due to human error.
By the time he reached the Morrison Media Center, Lance began to believe things were improving. The building’s glass facade caught the morning light, scattering it into geometric prisms without the usual ripples or distortions. The sleek automatic doors whooshed open, and he entered Room 204.
Inside, the atmosphere was relaxed yet focused. The low hum of workstations blended with the tapping of styluses on tablets, creating a creative buzz. Lance chose his seat from the day before, noticing that no one else seemed bothered by temporal oddities. Most classmates were absorbed in setting up their tools, offering only a few nodding greetings.
A hint of blue caught his eye—Maya, the girl from yesterday’s class, sat a couple of stations away. Today, thin silver headphones hung around her neck. She focused on calibrating her tablet’s stylus, her hair partly obscuring her face until she glanced up. Meeting his eyes, she smiled softly, a subtle acknowledgment that they were both here, ready to begin.
“Hey,” Lance said, leaning slightly toward her.
“Morning,” Maya replied warmly. “How’s it going?”
“Better, I think. Hoping for a smoother day,” he responded, offering a confident grin. She nodded understandingly, providing a quiet comfort—no drama, no demands. Just a shared space.
As he was about to speak again, Dr. Mendez entered, her timing impeccable. She wore a smock splashed with cobalt and magenta, her heavy bracelets jingling with every expressive gesture.
“Good morning, my talented creators!” Dr. Mendez announced. “I trust you’re all settling into campus life. Today, we’ll do something different—a chance to understand each other’s artistic backgrounds and influences.”
She tapped the large screen at the front. “Art emerges within a broader context, shaped by cultural and social dynamics. Within us reside fragments of past moments, landscapes, individuals, and encounters that mold the lens through which we perceive the world. Today’s challenge: create a digital piece reflecting an influential memory or environment that made you the artist you are. It could be your hometown, a family tradition, a significant event, even a book or game that sparked your creativity. The medium is up to you—digital painting, collage, vector illustration, whatever. No need for perfection—this is about authenticity.”
Lance exhaled, relieved. This felt less direct than drawing “time.” The concept was still personal, but it wouldn’t force him to confront the looping moments directly. He could channel something else—maybe home, his mother’s steady influence.
Before he could start, the door clicked open again. A latecomer strolled in with measured arrogance. Tall and slim, he wore designer sneakers, tailored chinos, and a casual blazer over a vintage band tee. Dropping into the empty seat between Lance and Maya, he flipped his stylus like a baton. His presence brought subtle tension. Lance didn’t know him, but he could guess: this guy had never struggled to fit in.
“Ah, Cade, you made it,” Dr. Mendez greeted him. “We’re just getting started. Follow the assignment instructions on the board.”
Cade Westbrook—a name Lance had heard mentioned yesterday—smirked, pushing his sandy-brown hair back. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he replied, confidence evident in his voice. He set up a state-of-the-art tablet that made Lance’s look outdated by comparison. Casting a brief, dismissive glance at Maya’s and Lance’s screens, he seemed to judge their work before it began.
Lance tried to ignore him. This morning felt normal—no time loops, no strange deja vu. He wasn’t about to let some snob ruin it. Rolling his shoulders, he focused on his work.
For several minutes, the room was filled with the quiet sounds of creation. Lance considered what to depict. Home? His mother? The hospital where she worked tirelessly to fund his education? He sketched a rough composition: the silhouette of a familiar street in Meridian City, the shape of his old apartment building, and a window with lamplight glowing inside. From that window, he’d watched his mother leave for countless late shifts, her watch always trailing a few minutes behind the world. In the foreground, he suggested the soft glow of her bedside lamp and the ever-present stack of medical journals.
As he worked, Maya’s gentle hum of concentration and the soft swish of her stylus piqued his curiosity. He didn’t look—he wanted to respect her space. Cade, on the other hand, tapped aggressively, muttering under his breath and occasionally glancing around as if to ensure he remained the center of his own universe.
After about half an hour, Dr. Mendez clapped her hands. “All right, everyone. Let’s pause and share. This will help us get to know each other and understand the diverse voices in this class.” She scrolled through the class roster on her tablet. “Who’s feeling brave? Show us what you’ve created and tell us about its significance.”
A couple of students volunteered. One girl displayed a digital collage of her grandmother’s quilt patterns overlaid on modern cityscapes. Another presented a stylized painting of his childhood soccer field. The atmosphere was supportive and curious.
Dr. Mendez then called on Maya. Maya projected her screen, revealing a piece that depicted a quiet backyard garden lit by fireflies. Over a fence, city lights twinkled. The colors transitioned from muted pastels to vibrant neon specks. “This is where I grew up—on the edge of a city. At night, my backyard felt like a meeting place between nature and civilization. It taught me to see beauty in contrasts, to look for brightness in dark corners,” she explained thoughtfully.
Her classmates murmured their appreciation. Lance found himself genuinely moved by her work—it felt both peaceful and searching, qualities he admired.
Dr. Mendez beamed. “Lovely, Maya. That sense of quiet wonder is very strong.”
Next, she turned her attention to him. “Lance, how about you?”
Lance’s heart pounded. He took a deep breath and projected his canvas. His drawing featured his old apartment’s window as a focal point, a soft glow inside suggesting warmth and care, and the faint silhouette of his mother’s watch on a side table, subtly off-kilter to imply its slowness. With measured calm, he began, “This is my old home in Meridian City. My mom worked a lot, and I spent a lot of time alone, drawing. The lamp and the watch represent how I learned to observe details. Quiet moments mattered. Art was my way of making sense of it all.”This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Mid-sentence, Cade snorted. “Huh. So basically you drew a window and a lamp. Groundbreaking.”
A few students chuckled awkwardly. Lance’s words caught in his throat. He tried to continue, “It’s more about the atmosphere and the feeling than—”
Cade interrupted mockingly. “Oh, sorry, didn’t realize we were grading on feelings here. I guess any random doodle counts as deep if you say it’s about your childhood.”
The room grew tense. Lance’s ears burned as he glanced at Maya, who gave him a sympathetic look, her brow knit in annoyance. Dr. Mendez stepped in, raising her eyebrows. “Cade, we respect all interpretations here.”
Lance struggled to recover, stumbling through the rest of his explanation. He felt exposed and foolish. The class ended shortly after. As he packed up, humiliated, he suddenly—
—found himself back at the start of class, staring at his blank screen.
He froze, heart pounding. Dr. Mendez was just beginning to outline the day’s assignment. Students were settling in as if it were the first time. He turned his head: Maya was plugging in her headphones, and Cade was arriving late again, taking his seat with the same casual arrogance. It was identical to before.
Lance’s mind raced. Had he imagined the entire presentation and humiliation? He touched his desk’s edge. Solid and real. His piece was gone, of course—he hadn’t drawn it yet this time. He glanced at his watch. The class time matched what it had been at the start. This wasn’t memory; it was a reset.
As Dr. Mendez gave the instructions again, he barely listened. Something was happening—time was repeating just like during move-in day, but more contained. He decided to test it. This time, he took a different approach to his drawing. Instead of the subtle window scene, he portrayed a portrait of his mother’s hands holding a coffee mug, the contours of their small kitchen table behind them. More personal, more literal. Perhaps clearer communication would leave Cade with less to mock.
When presentations came again, events unfolded eerily the same. Maya’s backyard scene appeared again, just as beautiful. Lance realized she was consistent—her work didn’t vary, or he couldn’t tell. Her presentation again drew admiration. He approached after her, showed his more literal piece, and tried to speak with confidence. But his words tangled. His nerves got the better of him.
“Is this supposed to impress us?” Cade remarked, his tone condescending. “I’m just not seeing anything that stands out.”
Lance’s heart sank. The sting was as sharp as before. As class ended, he gripped his pen, frustrated and confused—and then—
—he was back at the blank canvas once more.
This repetition continued. Each loop reinforced his suspicion of being trapped in a bizarre cycle. He began to notice tiny details: a flicker in the fluorescent lights exactly seven minutes in, the slight sway of Dr. Mendez’s bracelets as she paced, Maya tapping her stylus twice before starting, and the precise second Cade arrived with his smug glance.
After several loops, Lance regained his composure enough to experiment. On the fifth loop, he created a digital collage mixing old family photos with stylized sketches of Meridian City’s skyline. On the fourth, he studied Maya’s technique, noting her layered colors and ethereal glow. He incorporated some of that approach into his own work, blending warm yellows of lamplight with cooler city hues to create mood rather than a literal scene.
Cade’s remarks varied slightly each cycle but always stung. Lance realized Cade was lashing out at vulnerability. If he presented more confidently, maybe Cade’s barbs would soften. He also noticed Maya folding her arms and glaring at Cade after his comments, silently defending him.
By the seventh loop, Lance was prepared. He created a piece balancing personal meaning with stronger visual storytelling. He drew the small kitchen table again, this time placing symbolic objects on it: a half-filled mug representing his mother’s endless shifts, a sketchbook with half-finished doodles reflecting his younger self’s practice, and a partially open door symbolizing the opportunities Greylock offered. He refined his line work, improved his composition, and used bolder contrasts, inspired by Maya’s technique of highlighting focal points with gentle illumination. The result was more cohesive and visually engaging.
When presentations rolled around, Lance paid close attention to how others spoke. He noted phrases that elicited positive reactions and admired Maya’s unwavering grace—how she led the viewer into her piece without overexplaining. He decided to be concise and confident—no rambling, no apologizing for his work.
Maya went right before him as usual, presenting the same lovely backyard scene. Lance now saw that her piece wasn’t just a pretty illustration—she was showcasing a philosophical perspective: finding beauty in transitional spaces. The class murmured their appreciation, just as before.
Now it was Lance’s turn. He took a steadying breath and explained his piece calmly. “This is my old kitchen table back home. It’s where I learned to be patient, to observe details, to see the ordinary as a source of inspiration. The open door represents where I am now, at Greylock, turning that quiet observation into something new. I wanted to show the environment that shaped me into who I am as an artist.”
For a split second, silence hung in the air. Lance thought he saw Maya give him a subtle nod of approval. A few classmates leaned in, interested rather than dismissive.
Cade cleared his throat. “Interesting,” he said, his tone less mocking this time. “I guess I can see some thought went into it.” His voice still carried a hint of superiority but was less cutting—perhaps Lance’s newfound confidence had thrown him off balance.
Dr. Mendez smiled warmly. “Nicely articulated, Lance. There’s a clarity that really helps me feel the connection between your past and your present.”
Lance felt a sigh of relief. He had broken the cycle of fumbling presentations and crushing embarrassment. But would the class repeat again? He held his breath as Dr. Mendez wrapped up class. Students began packing their tablets and styluses. The familiar dizziness didn’t come. No sudden jolt back to the start. Instead, the classroom remained firmly rooted in the present.
As he slid his tablet into his bag, Maya walked over. The faint scent of her floral shampoo reached him before she spoke. “Your piece really came together,” she said softly. “I really liked it.”
He swallowed, thinking of a response that wouldn’t expose his secret. “Yeah, I… guess I found a better way to express what I meant,” he replied carefully, forcing a smile. “It helped that your piece was so inspiring. I liked how you used contrasts to guide the viewer’s eye.”
Maya tilted her head, intrigued. “Thanks. It’s funny, I feel like we’ve done this before.” Her voice had a light, teasing quality, but Lance glimpsed a serious undertone. Did she suspect something? “Anyway, I’m glad you stuck with it. Sharing personal stuff in a new environment can be tough.”
“Tell me about it,” Lance responded, relieved to keep the conversation casual. He noticed Cade hovering near the exit, glancing their way but not daring to interrupt this time. Perhaps he’d lost some power over them.
As they left the Morrison Media Center together, Lance dared to check his phone. The time matched the building’s lobby clock within a minute—close enough not to trigger alarm bells. The clock tower’s distant chime drifted through the windows. He resisted the urge to stare too hard at the tower’s faces.
Stepping outside, the day continued without any sign of repetition. Students crossed the quad, laughing and talking, each moment flowing into the next. Lance savored the normalcy yet couldn’t ignore the sense that he had passed a test of some kind. He had been forced to refine his perspective, his art, and his confidence through multiple attempts. He had adapted, improved, and grown more assertive in defending his artistic identity. Perhaps that was the lesson hidden in those loops—if you fail, time would give you another chance until you get it right.
Maya offered a small wave as she headed to her next class. “See you tomorrow, Lance.”
“See you,” he replied, his voice steady, grateful that something constructive had emerged from this strange ordeal. He watched her leave, then turned toward his own destination, his mind still buzzing with the impossible morning he’d lived multiple times.
Now he carried a new secret: Greylock’s mysterious time anomalies weren’t going away. If anything, they were becoming more targeted, more instructive, as though the university—or something within it—was pushing him to learn. Learn what, though? How to adapt, how to communicate more effectively, how to refine himself under pressure?
He didn’t have answers yet, only questions. But as he moved on to his next class, Lance felt steadier. He could handle the uncertainty. After all, he’d faced the same moment repeatedly and emerged better prepared each cycle. That had to count for something.
This time, the rest of the day proceeded uninterrupted. No sudden resets, no vanishing minutes. Just the quiet thrill of having succeeded at something that yesterday would have seemed impossible. He had navigated the loops, grown closer to Maya—if only slightly—and dulled the sting of Cade’s barbs.
As he made his way toward his next class, Lance allowed himself a small, private smile.