The M6 signal wasn't a channel. It was a direct line. A live feed from a second of the future, a splinter in time maintained by something that needed her alive. The shape in the reflection took a single, silent step toward the TV-Elara.
The word wasn't in a corner or an electronic program guide. It was written into the grey, as if carved by a fingernail on the inside of the glass. Then, the grey parted.
Yet, there it was. Direct.
Elara didn't breathe. Behind her, the wardrobe door creaked open. Tv M6 Direct
She stared at the dead black glass of the M6, waiting for it to come back, to tell her what to do next. But it stayed dark. She was alone now. Direct had been cut. And the thing in the wardrobe was learning to move in real time.
A room appeared. Not a studio, but a bedroom. Her bedroom. The camera—or whatever was on the other side—was positioned where her wardrobe stood, pointing directly at her bed. She saw herself, sitting cross-legged on the rug, staring back at the blank TV screen. Only, on the TV, the version of her was two seconds ahead.
The screen went grey again. Then black. Then the faint hum of a truly dead television filled the room. The M6 signal wasn't a channel
The ticker changed.
Behind the TV-Elara, in the reflection of the mirror on her wall, there was a shape. Taller than a person should be, its head brushing the ceiling, its limbs too long, its edges bleeding into the shadows. It was standing exactly where the real wardrobe stood.
The screen flickered. Not the usual static of a dead channel, but a deep, liquid grey, like the surface of a restless sea at midnight. Elara leaned closer, the dusty remote forgotten in her hand. The old M6 television set, a relic from her grandmother's attic, hadn't been plugged in. She had checked. Twice. The shape in the reflection took a single,
"Hello?" she whispered.
Elara waved. The TV-Elara waved back, but with a slight, chilling delay.