Number 11
One night, lying in bed, I stared at the clock as it turned to 11:11. Instead of rolling my eyes, I whispered, “All right. I’m here.”
Number 11
© February 22, 2026 JG with ChatGPT
One night, lying in bed, I stared at the clock as it turned to 11:11. Instead of rolling my eyes, I whispered, “All right. I’m here.”
The morning I decided to become a serious skeptic, I woke up at exactly 11:11 a.m.
Not 11:10. Not 11:12. My digital clock glowed with four parallel lines like a minimalist picket fence guarding the gates of reason.
I squinted at it.
“This,” I told the ceiling, “is coincidence.”
The ceiling, being Switzerland in all domestic disputes, declined to comment.
Still, I couldn’t deny that this was the fourth time this week that I’d noticed 11:11. I’d seen it on receipts, license plates, grocery totals, and once, ominously mind you, on a fix-it parking violation that cost me $11.11. I had begun to suspect the universe had a sense of humor and access to my checking account.
I am not a numerology person. I am the sort of man who believes numbers should file their taxes quietly and avoid metaphysical ambitions. Yet there it was…
