Everyone in Yunhai City knows rumors move faster than traffic and cling longer than smoke. I learned that at 4:44 a.m., when my phone lit up on its own with a dry tick and the urban legend app bloomed across the screen. I had never downloaded it. Later, people would whisper about it, though no one liked saying the words together.
At 4:44, elders say the city pauses—breathing in before the day begins. Scooters idle mid-lane. A neon sign buzzes, then goes quiet. Even the stray cats stop fighting. Across the street, apartment windows light at once, like a single hand flipped a switch. The sea wind stalls. The MRT’s hum dips, as if someone pressed a finger to its lips. Market stalls open at 4:45, never earlier. This started after the harbor renovation, when they poured concrete over the old shrine steps. No one argues about that. Arguing is trouble.
The app suggested a soy milk stall by the river road.
I went because I’ve always chosen badly on purpose. Once, I followed the smell of burnt sugar instead of a map and found a bakery that closed the next week. I still remember the taste. I liked being wrong.
The vendor nodded as if he’d expected me. The soy milk was warm, smooth—waiting. The man behind me frowned when his screen chimed and sent him elsewhere. The last bowl sat ready before I spoke.
At work, nobody questioned the app.
“It helps,” Mei said, scrolling.
When I asked who installed it, she blinked.
“Installed? It’s just there. Don’t be weird.”
That night, I deleted it.
At 4:44 a.m., it returned. Tick.
How the Urban Legend App Helps
Life smoothed out. The urban legend app warned me before rain flooded side streets. It guided me through alleys just ahead of the crowds, fryer oil and wet concrete hanging heavy in the air. It picked noodle shops that never disappointed.
Then it edged closer. Congee on days I felt tired. Sleep earlier. Leave earlier. My mother smiled when I told her.
“In Yunhai,” she said quietly, “convenience is a blessing. People who make trouble don’t stay lucky.”
One morning, phones chimed at the same instant—a soft chorus—and the crowd stepped off the curb before the signal changed. No one laughed. Someone murmured, “Recommended for stability.”
At a crossing, Mei’s app said left. Mine said right. We hesitated. The light stayed red a second too long. Above us, a billboard flickered. Both screens refreshed—updated route available. We crossed without speaking.
A delivery rider missed his usual turn after an update. He took the alley with standing water, slid, and broke his wrist. People shrugged. “Unlucky,” they said, already scrolling.
Two days later, Mr. Gao from across the hall died. Heart failure. Sudden. Clean. He used to hum old songs at 4:45, nodding like the day had finally started. Once, in the elevator, I saw his phone dark at 4:44. He stared at the doors instead of the screen.
The next morning, the app chimed from inside his apartment before the ambulance arrived.
At 4:44 a.m., mine opened again. Tick.
The Urban Legend App Optimizes Grief
It suggested a café “ideal for recovery.” A playlist “recommended for emotional stability.” A recipe that needed almost no effort.
My thumb hovered.
The app never asked how I felt. It trimmed grief into something neat. My father used to say mourning was a long walk you took alone. No shortcuts.
I ignored the café.
The app paused. A faint click, like a metronome resetting.
It tried again. Softer this time. The same words—ideal, optimal, stability.
I deleted it.
At 4:44 a.m., it returned.
I began refusing on purpose. Streets it warned against. Meals it called inefficient. On the train, it suggested a seat “optimal for rest.” I stayed standing. Someone else slid into it with a grateful sigh.
For a moment, I wanted the shortcut more than I wanted freedom. My thumb opened the app before I noticed. I shut the screen off too hard. The woman beside me flinched.
At the night market, an old woman grabbed my wrist. Her hand smelled of incense and oil.
“If you stop,” she whispered, “don’t hesitate.”
Learning How to Say No
The app did not like silence.
It suggested the underpass. I took the stairs. People surged upward—elbows, heat, breath. My phone chimed—updated route available—and the crowd shifted, pressing toward me like water finding a crack.
Wrong trains.
Wrong food.
Wrong turns.
At first, people only edged away. Half-steps. Side glances at their screens.
Then the app adjusted. It stopped naming places and started naming people.
Follow the man with the umbrella.
Stand near the woman in red.
I kept my eyes on the floor.
A stranger’s phone chimed beside me.
“Recommended,” a flat voice read aloud, “avoid the person in the gray shirt.”
I was wearing gray.
People didn’t look at me; they looked through me. A heel clipped mine near the platform edge. I windmilled and caught the rail by luck. A hand steadied me. His phone was already open.
Mine buzzed hot in my palm.
At 4:44 a.m., the icon thinned. Dimmed.
I turned the phone face down and watched the minute crawl.
No tick came.
I deleted it.
A City That Moves On
I left Yunhai City a week later. Staying felt like letting the city breathe for me. I didn’t trust myself not to open the app again. Mei never answered my messages. Once, before she stopped replying, she’d said, “After Mr. Gao… I don’t want to choose.”
In another coastal town, my phone stayed dark at 4:44 a.m. Dawn came without ceremony.
Online, a post surfaced from somewhere else. A strange app. Appeared overnight. Helpful. The replies came fast.
Calm. Reassuring.
I closed the browser.
Outside, a food stall lifted its shutters. The owner checked his watch and waited until 4:45 before turning on the lights. Above the station, a billboard flickered once, then went black.
I checked the time.
4:43 a.m.
No one moved yet.
Somewhere nearby, a single phone ticked.