The third day began without anyone truly knowing when the night had ended.

When Wildan woke up, his room remained identical to how he had left it. A hazy, pale orange glow continued to bleed through the gaps in the curtains, as though time itself refused to march forward. The fatigue weighing down Wildan's body had doubled. His breath felt short, and every time he swallowed, his throat burned dry and raw.

He immediately reached for his phone lying on the mattress. The device remained dead. Driven by desperation, Wildan climbed out of bed, grabbed a charging cable, and plugged it into the wall outlet near the vanity mirror.

No vibration.

No charging icon flashed across the screen.

"Damn it, completely dead," Wildan cursed in frustration. He yanked the cord out and tried plugging it into another outlet near the door. The result was identical. The house seemed entirely devoid of electrical current, yet strangely enough, the ambient heat radiating from the concrete floor felt increasingly intense.

Wildan stepped out of his room in a foul mood. Reaching the living room, he found his mother sweeping the floor with an old palm-frond broom. Her movements were agonizingly slow, swinging in a smooth, rhythmic arc that produced zero scratching noise against the cement.

"Mom, are the outlets in my room broken? My phone hasn't been able to charge since yesterday," Wildan asked, walking up beside her.

His mother stopped sweeping, turned slowly, and offered a serene smile. "Maybe it's just time for it to break, Le. Enough, stop fussing over your phone all day. Stay home, relax with Mom."

Wildan let out a heavy breath, his eyes instinctively drifting to the round wall clock hanging above the television. He froze.

The hands remained locked in the exact same position as yesterday. And the day before.

Dead on twelve. The red second hand stood frozen stiff.

"Mom..." Wildan pointed at the clock, his brow furrowed. "Is our wall clock broken, too? Why hasn't the hand moved an inch since yesterday? What time is it actually, Mom? Is it morning yet, or still dawn?"

His mother resumed sweeping, her face entirely unruffled by Wildan's interrogation. "It's still morning, Le. Still very early. Just stay inside for now, no need to rush outside."

"Morning?" Wildan felt a spike of disbelief at his mother's warped logic. "Mom, ever since yesterday, every time I ask what time it is, you always say it's morning. But the light outside the window has looked like this hazy, overcast orange the whole time. Every clock in the house is dead. I have a bad feeling... we've been stuck in this house for hours on end."

"Time sometimes moves slowly when we're all gathered together, Wildan," a heavy voice chimed in from the direction of the kitchen.

His father walked out, holding a glass of water. He wasn't wearing his construction gear; instead, he wore the same white undershot singlet Wildan had worn yesterday. His footsteps made no sound. Settling into the sagging leather sofa, his father fixed Wildan with a deep, piercing gaze.

"Come sit down, Wildan. Keep Dad company," his father invited.

Wildan shook his head, a spike of panic mingling with the anxiety tightening his chest. "No, Dad. I'm losing my mind. What day is it today? Why is it so dead quiet out there? There's no way the neighborhood kids hanging out have vanished completely three days in a row. There has to be something happening outside!"

Rian suddenly bolted out of his bedroom, scampering over to wrap his arms tightly around Wildan's waist. "Why are you always getting angry, Big Brother? Rian's happy when you're home. Come on, play a guessing game with me?"

Wildan felt that familiar, glacial cold bleed from Rian's hands through his waist, contrasting sharply with the warming concrete floor beneath them. He roughly shoved his little brother away.

"Rian, let go! I'm trying to figure things out!" Wildan snapped, causing Rian to stumble backward, his lower lip trembling with hurt. The boy's face looked devastatingly fragile, as though he might shatter into dust at any second.

Seeing his brother upset, a wave of instant guilt crashed over Wildan. He massaged his throbbing temples. "I'm sorry, Rian. I'm just... I'm just losing it. Mom, tell me the truth. What time is it?"

His mother leaned her broom against the corner of the room and stepped closer to Wildan. She reached out, cupping his cheek with agonizing tenderness. Her skin felt as cold as shaved ice, giving Wildan a momentary chill, yet her eyes were heartbreakingly pleading.

"I'm not lying, Le. To Mom, to Dad, and to Rian... right now, it is still morning," she whispered, a single crystal tear welling in the corner of her drooping eye. "A quiet morning, where we can all gather together without anyone fighting. Don't you like being with us, Wildan?"

"It's not that, Mom..." Wildan choked out, his throat tightening. "I'm happy. I'm genuinely grateful that Mom and Dad aren't yelling at me anymore. But... but this tightness in my chest won't go away. The burning smell outside is getting stronger. I just want to know what's going on out there."

His father stood up from the sofa, closing the distance between them. He clapped a large, icy palm onto Wildan's shoulder.

"Out there, there is only exhausting chaos, Wildan. You've spent your whole life running out of this house to escape your problems, haven't you? Now, it's time to stay right here. Enjoy this slow-moving time with us," his father said, his voice brimming with charisma yet masking a bottomless, aching sorrow.

"But until when, Dad? Until when is this clock going to stay stuck at twelve?" Wildan demanded, his voice climbing into raw frustration.

"Until you're ready, Le," his mother whispered softly.

Wildan scanned the faces of his three family members one by one. They stood clustered around him, gazing at him with gentle smiles, yet their eyes harbored a profound, heavily guarded despair.

Time in this house wasn't simply moving slowly—time here was dead. And behind the fortress of illusions they had erected, Wildan began to realize that a horrifying truth was waiting to smash its way into his consciousness.