One morning, everything just stopped. The clocks stopped working, the cars did not move, and people were statues. A kid who was throwing a ball with a surface as rough as sandpaper was frozen mid-throw, and the ball just hung there in the air, as if it was glued. Everything was frozen, but a few people, somehow, could move.
Breakfast was levitating over the tables, buttery toast frozen mid-fall from a plate at home. Outside, soft dogs were stuck mid-bark with mouths wide open, like they were just waiting for something to happen, and birds stayed in the sky without flapping their wings, like someone had hit the stop button on the whole world.
The rivers had stopped. Even the wind didn’t seem to move; minty smelling trees stood perfectly still, not even a slight shake. There was a heavy feeling in the air, as if something big controlled us. Those of them who still could move around looked for some explanation. They yelled into the silence, but nothing answered. They patted frozen faces, waved their hands in front of their friends’ faces, but nobody looked.
Then, suddenly, everything came back into place: the clocks were ticking, the dust-covered cars were honking, and the baseball started flying across the cold, grassy yard. The world was back to normal.
