The Button

It appeared on Eleanor’s kitchen table at 7:03 a.m.—a smooth, red button on a steel base, gleaming like it had been buffed by a god. No note, no box, just there. Her morning coffee turned bitter with the unease of it.

She didn’t touch it. Not the first day.

On the second day, she circled it like prey. Pressing it might mean disaster—or salvation. Her thoughts spiraled: Was this fate? Judgment? A prank from a higher plane?

By day four, the button’s presence infected everything. She lost her job. Friends stopped calling. The world grew distant, unfocused. All that mattered was the choice.

“Push me,” the silence begged.

On day seven, she did.

There was no flash. No sound. Just a blink—like the world skipped a frame.

Nothing changed.

Until everything did.


---

It started small: she knew things before they happened. A teacup fell before her cat touched it. The mailman tripped and she gasped before he stumbled. Then it escalated.

She began shifting. She'd walk through a door in Brooklyn and end up in Prague. Time buckled. She watched herself reading in her apartment while standing across the street in the rain.

And voices. Whispers in mirrors. Her reflection smiled when she didn’t.

Terrified, Eleanor tried to destroy the button. Smashed it with a hammer, burned it in her fireplace. It remained pristine. Unbreakable. Watching.

She sought help. Scientists, shamans, priests—no one could explain the anomaly or stop the shifts. Everyone who tried vanished.

It was a curse, she decided. She’d meddled with a force too vast, too alien.

But then—clarity. A voice inside her skull, not hers, but familiar.

“You're not Eleanor.”


---

Memories she’d never lived began unfurling: A council of architects in a white dimension. Discussions of probability strands. The experiment: Earth-32. A simulated life coded into a shell named “Eleanor.”

She wasn’t real.

She was the test.

And the button? The control mechanism. A trigger for awakening. A contingency.

She tore through documents in the simulation’s government archives. Found a facility in Nevada matching coordinates hidden in her dreams.

Inside: more buttons. Hundreds. Thousands. Each labeled with names: Marcus, Priya, Lu Chen, Eleanor. Hers glowed red. The others? Dim.

She stood before a console marked: “RESET.”

And a file opened on the screen: "Simulation #928. Subject achieved partial awakening. Reality integrity compromised. Initiate memory wipe or full reboot."

There were only two options.

Her finger hovered—then slammed the red “RESET” button again.


---

Everything vanished.

Except a kitchen table.

A smooth, red button.

And a woman sipping coffee.

Unaware.

Until 7:03 a.m.