The Broken Alarm Clock

The first time the alarm clock didn’t ring, Mira woke up anyway—because the sun tapped her nose.

Literally.

A warm, glowing dot of sunlight bounced gently off her face, as if it were trying not to be rude. Mira squinted, confused, and sat up in bed. Sunlight didn’t *tap*. It just… shone.

She glanced at her alarm clock.

7:30 a.m.

Late.

Mira yelped, leapt out of bed, and tripped over her backpack. “Great,” she groaned. “Late on the day of the math quiz.”

She rushed through her morning, barely noticing that her socks had paired themselves or that her toothbrush hummed as she brushed. At school, something felt off—but not bad. Different.

During the math quiz, the numbers on the page rearranged themselves slightly, nudging her toward the right answers. Mira blinked, shook her head, and finished quickly.

When the final bell rang, she exhaled. “Weird day,” she muttered.

That night, she set her alarm carefully.

6:30 a.m.

She even tapped it twice for luck.

---

The second time the alarm clock didn’t ring, Mira knew something was wrong.

She woke up to the *exact* same sunlight tapping her nose.

Same warmth. Same angle. Same bird chirping outside.

She sat bolt upright.

The clock read 7:30 a.m.

“No,” she whispered.

She scrambled to her calendar. Same date. Same math quiz circled in red.

At school, everything repeated—the hallway chatter, the squeaky locker, even the joke her friend Ben told at lunch.

But the magic had changed.

The lockers whispered encouragement as Mira passed. Her pencil wrote more neatly than ever. When she stumbled during gym class, the floor bounced softly like a trampoline.

At the end of the day, Mira was certain.

The day had repeated.

By the third time, Mira was ready.

She didn’t rush. She studied the alarm clock instead.

It was old, round, and yellowed with age. It had belonged to her grandmother, who’d always said, *Time is less strict than people think.*

Mira tapped the glass. “Why aren’t you ringing?”

The clock ticked back.

Once.

Twice.

Then it stopped.

Mira gasped as the numbers melted into symbols—tiny stars, moons, and spirals she didn’t recognize.

“Oh,” she breathed. “You’re magical.”

That day, the magic grew bolder.

Flowers bloomed in the cracks of the sidewalk. The school bell rang in harmony. Mira could understand the pigeons arguing near the cafeteria (“He stole my bread!” “It was communal!”).

She tested the rules.

She changed answers on the quiz—still passed.

She skipped a class—no consequences.

She stood up to a girl who’d been teasing Ben—and the girl apologized, confused but sincere.

When night came, Mira felt a strange mix of excitement and dread.

“What happens,” she asked the clock, “if you never ring?”

The clock stayed silent.

---

By the fifth repeating day, Mira noticed something new.

The magic depended on her.

When she was kind, the world glowed brighter.

When she was selfish, things dulled.

Once, she ignored Ben when he asked for help. The sky turned gray. The whispering lockers fell quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Mira said aloud.

Colour rushed back into the world.

She began to understand: the repeating day wasn’t a gift for getting things right. It was a lesson.

But lessons couldn’t last forever.

On the seventh repetition, Mira woke up to silence. No sun tap. No birds. Just stillness.

The clock showed no numbers at all—only a single word etched where the time should be:

CHOOSE.

Mira’s throat tightened. “Choose what?”

The clock ticked once.

Memories flooded her mind—every version of the day. Every kindness. Every mistake. Every magical change.

She understood.

She could keep the loop. Keep fixing things. Keep perfecting herself.

Or she could let time move forward—imperfect, unpredictable, real.

Mira picked up the clock, hands trembling. “I don’t want to be perfect,” she whispered. “I just want to be… brave enough to keep going.”

She turned the dial.

The alarm rang.

Loud. Sharp. Ordinary.

Mira bolted upright, heart pounding.

6:30 a.m.

A new day.

Outside, the sunlight streamed normally. The birds chirped their usual songs. No whispers. No magic tricks.

She smiled anyway.

At school, the math quiz was harder. She made a small mistake. Ben still laughed at her jokes. The teasing girl kept her distance but didn’t apologize.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was real.

That night, Mira placed the alarm clock on her desk. The symbols were gone. The glass was plain again.

But as she turned off the light, she could have sworn the clock ticked softly—warm, approving.

Time moved forward.

And Mira did too.