The Pause Button

The remote arrived in a plain brown box, no return address, no instructions. Just one red button labeled PAUSE.

Eli pressed it by accident.

The world froze mid-breath. Dust hung like constellations. A bird stalled outside the window, wings spread in disbelief. Eli laughed—then noticed the coffee table was gone. Not moved. Gone. A clean rectangle of emptiness where it had been.

He tested it again the next day. Pause. Silence. This time, a lamp vanished. Then a chair. Then the TV.

He learned the rule quickly: time demanded payment.

Still, it was hard to stop. He paused to sleep through deadlines. Paused to avoid grief when his sister’s name lit up his phone. Each use hollowed the house further, until rooms echoed and walls felt too close.

One night, exhausted, Eli pressed pause and walked through the stillness, finally calm. When he returned, the house was almost empty.

Only the remote remained on the floor.

He hesitated, then pressed play.

The remote vanished.

Time resumed.
So did everything else—without him.