March 5, 2025
Mortimer Watson saw his own name in an obituary.
That was the beginning.
It happened on a Monday afternoon, one of those gray, dead-air days that felt neither like winter nor spring, just an in-between. He was in bed, nestled into the well-worn dip his body had carved into the mattress, playing a meaningless game on his phone. His apartment smelled like old coffee and unwashed sheets. The sort of place where a person could sit still for days and not leave a mark.
Then, a Google News alert flashed across his screen.
NEWS ALERT: “MORTIMER WATSON”
Mortimer frowned. His heart hiccupped. That wasn’t a common name, was it? He clicked the link.
The article loaded.
“MORTIMER WATSON OBITUARY”
His breath caught. A cold, creeping unease slithered through him. He read:
“Mortimer Watson passed away quietly in Tulsa on February 24, 2024, at the age of 40. With no siblings, children, or surviving family, Mortimer’s departure leaves behind little more than a name in the records and a few scattered acquaintances who knew him in passing. He worked, he ate, he slept, and he repeated the process for four decades with little deviation. His interests were modest, his impact minimal, and his absence, while noted, will not leave a significant void.”
Mortimer sat up. The words felt wrong, like something pressing against the edges of his reality.
“He is preceded in death by his parents, whose names are now just as forgotten as his will soon be. There will be no service, no flowers, and no memorial to mark his time on this earth. But for a brief moment, his name is written here, and perhaps that is enough.”
Mortimer swallowed.
“Did I die?”
He needed to hear from someone, but even more he needed someone to hear him.
He texted Pete. No response. He texted Sally. Same.
His gut twisted. The room felt too quiet.
He rushed to the shower. Hot water pounded against his skin, grounding him. He wiped the steam off the mirror. His reflection stared back, but something about it seemed off.
Outside, the world was still. He drove aimlessly until he found himself parked outside a coffee shop. People walked past, cars rumbled down the street—but none of it felt real.
No one looked at him.
Inside, the coffee shop buzzed with low chatter, the hiss of espresso machines, the rhythmic clatter of cups. But something gnawed at the edges of his reality.
No one greeted him.
A barista stood behind the counter, wiping steam from a milk frother. She didn’t even glance his way.
“They’re just busy,” he told himself.
Across the café, a man in his forties or fifties sat alone. Watching him.
Mortimer’s pulse quickened. Finally—someone.
He hurried over and slid into the seat across from the man.
“Hey,” Mortimer said.
The man met his eyes. “Hi.”
Mortimer exhaled. A lifeline.
“I’m not dead, right?” he asked.
The man tilted his head slightly.
“You sure about that?”
Mortimer forced a laugh. “Yeah. I mean, I just read an obituary for someone with my name. Weird, right? But it’s not me.”
The man picked up Mortimer’s phone, scanning the article.
“Well, this is depressing,” he muttered.
“Right?”
“And you’re certain it’s not you?”
“Jesus, man, no! I mean, parts of it sound like me, but I’m sitting here, breathing and everything, so obviously—”
“You sure about that?”
A chill slithered down Mortimer’s spine.
“So what? You’re just sitting here? By yourself?” Mortimer asked.
“I was,” the man replied.
Mortimer shifted in his seat. “You’re not dead either, right?”
“God, I hope not.”
“Then what? Why are you the only person who’s seeing me?”
The man’s lips curled into something resembling a smile. “I am?”
Mortimer started to protest—but then, a server walked up and placed a glass of water in front of him.
“I’ll be right with you,” she said.
Mortimer blinked.
“Okay, so not totally. But this is just weird. Or I’m being weird. I don’t know. Fuck, I mean, how many Mortimer Watsons are there?”
The man leaned back. “Seven.”
Mortimer frowned. “Seven? Really?”
The man grinned. “No, I’m just messing with you. So far, I only know of one.”
Mortimer exhaled and rubbed his temples. “But yeah, there are probably a ton.”
The man studied him. “Was it just the name? Or the description that got you?”
“Both, actually. I mean, I haven’t done much with my life. This did sound a lot like me. Kinda sucks.”
“Missed out on some life stuff?”
Mortimer hesitated. “Yeah, maybe.”
The man leaned forward.
“Too late to do anything about it?”
The words struck something deep inside Mortimer. A sore spot.
“My life? Make it not suck?” he asked.
The man’s voice was steady.
“You think forty is too late, Mortimer? That life’s passed you by, and now you’re just waiting for the clock to wind down? No. That’s a lie you tell yourself to stay comfortable in the wreckage. You haven’t done anything? So what? Most people spend forty years just figuring out how not to drown.”
Mortimer swallowed.
“You know who was forty before they got started? Vera Wang didn’t design a dress until she was forty. Samuel L. Jackson didn’t land his first big role till he was forty-six. Hell, Colonel Sanders was a damn failure until his sixties, and now his face is on every chicken bucket from here to Beijing. You got time.”
“You could write a book. You could pick up a guitar. You could learn Spanish and actually use it somewhere other than a restaurant menu. You could fall in love with something—anything—so deeply it sets your blood on fire. You could find something you believe in so fiercely it makes you wake up before the sun and go to bed with sore hands.”
“You could get out of this chair, walk out that door, and go somewhere you’ve never been before—just to see if the world looks different from a place you’ve never stood. And you know what? It will.”
Mortimer exhaled shakily.
“You ever have a moment where you hear something—really hear it—and it feels like a door swinging open inside you?”
The man just smiled.
Mortimer looked at the obituary on his phone again.
February 24.
Today.
“This guy died today?”
The man nodded.
“Yeah.”
Mortimer’s throat went dry.
“So this is me?”
“Yeah. That’s you.”
Mortimer’s breath hitched.
“And you are?”
The man’s smile never faltered.
“Just a guy doing his job.”
Cold dread slammed into Mortimer’s chest.
“So what was all that about?”
The man sighed.
“It just makes me feel good.”
He reached across the table and placed a hand on Mortimer’s.
Cold.
Everything blurred. His breath hitched. Then—
Darkness.
The server approached.
The man smiled.
“Check, please.”
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