Chapter 1 - The Pen

His eyes were locked onto something—or someone. The boy, no older than sixteen, sat hunched in a shadowed corner of the tavern. His clothes didn’t fit; the coat draped over his thin frame was too large, the pants barely reached his ankles, and his shoes were worn through. The streets were his home.

The tavern was unusually crowded for a weekday, filled with murmurs of unease. People whispered about which roads out of the city were still safe, while others drank as if the world were ending. And for all anyone knew, it might be. Yet, amidst the chaos, the boy wasn’t listening to their fears—his gaze was fixed on the man with the pen.

The pen danced across the paper, filling pages from top to bottom. Notes crowded the margins, thoughts spilling over in what some might call madness. It was as if the man needed to capture every fragment before it slipped from his mind.

Yet, there was something strange about the pen. It moved swiftly and deliberately, its ink flowing endlessly without ever being dipped into the inkwell beside it. The surface of the pen shimmered under the dim candlelight, shifting subtly, as though etched with symbols that refused to stay still. A faint glow pulsed along its shaft, responding to the rhythm of his thoughts. Each stroke left behind words that seemed almost too perfect, too sharp, as if they had been inscribed by something beyond human craftsmanship.

The book itself was no less unusual. Bound in deep brown leather, its cover was worn, yet unyielding, as if it had weathered years without truly aging. Strange markings ran along its spine—etched letters that didn’t belong to any known language, shifting when viewed from the corner of the eye. Though its pages should have thickened with ink, they remained impossibly crisp, absorbing every frantic note without smudging or warping. Despite how many pages he had already filled, the book never seemed to grow heavier. It was as if it had no true end.

The rest of the tavern was lost in its own world—drunken murmurs, whispered fears of roads no longer safe. No one noticed the man or the pen’s quiet impossibility.

No one, except for the street kid in the corner.

The boy noticed other oddities about the man. His attire was slightly off, as though he didn’t quite belong. His trousers mirrored a fashion trend just beginning to take root in London, yet the fabric shimmered faintly, catching the light in a way no ordinary weave should. His cream-colored shirt remained pristine, untouched by the city’s grime, as if the filth of the streets refused to cling to it. His coat, folded neatly beside him, was of an impossibly fine material, softer than wool yet with the weight of something denser, something unfamiliar. The buttons bore an intricate design—symbols the boy didn’t recognize, etched too precisely for human hands. Everything about him was out of place. Not just from another part of town, but perhaps, from another time entirely.

A loud crash erupted as a mug of ale shattered over a patron’s head. The tavern exploded into chaos, anger, and fear feeding the frenzy. The crowd swelled beyond capacity, a seething, drunken mosh pit. Yet, the man with the pen remained undisturbed—until someone bumped him.

His coat tumbled to the floor. Reaching to pick it up, he noticed something amiss. His hand darted into the inside pocket—empty. His face twisted in horror. He had placed it there. He was certain. His eyes flickered downward, scanning the wooden floorboards, but found nothing.

Then, through the tangle of legs and movement, he spotted the tavern door creaking open. A flash of sunlight glinted off something in a boy’s hand. A pocket watch. His pocket watch.

"Stop, boy!" he bellowed, surging to his feet. The street urchin, clutching the stolen prize, cast a glance over his shoulder before dashing out into the streets. The man seized his belongings—his journal, pen, and hat—before barreling through the crowd, shoving bodies aside as he stormed toward the exit.

Outside, the light was wrong. It was near noon, yet the sky was a dull gray, absent of shadows. The streets, usually teeming with life, were eerily empty. A wind howled, nearly tearing the hat from his head. A newspaper fluttered down the road, slamming against a hitching post. It bore a chilling headline: Is the End Near?

Regaining his footing on the cobblestone, he scanned the street. A fleeting glimpse—movement, a figure ducking into an alley three buildings down. He took off after the boy, dodging through the refuse-strewn path. A sickly stench of rot clung to the air, yet the usual scavengers—rats, stray dogs—were nowhere to be found. Something was deeply wrong with this city.

Reaching an adjoining alley, he hesitated. The labyrinth of London’s backstreets offered the perfect escape. His chances of finding the boy were slim. Still, he picked a direction and ran.

Then, he saw him.

The boy stood motionless in the alley’s center, his posture unnaturally rigid. His eyes were fixed on something ahead—a darkness, an abyss swallowing everything in its path. It wasn’t mere shadow; it devoured light, sound, existence itself. A low, almost soothing hum emanated from it, whispering the end of everything.

"Kid! Look away!" the man shouted, yanking a pair of peculiar, red-tinted glasses from his breast pocket. "Don’t listen to it!"

No reaction. The boy was transfixed. The darkness slithered closer, curling around his outstretched hand.

"Kid! KID!"

Desperation surged through him. Then—movement. A glint of silver swinging from the boy’s wrist. The chain of the pocket watch.

In a single motion, the man lunged forward. The blackness enveloped the boy’s arm and leg as he reached forward, stepping into oblivion. But as the child vanished, his other hand swung backward—the chain flailing in the air.

The man grasped it. The last two links.

With a desperate yank, he pulled. The boy was gone. The pocket watch, however, was not.

Stumbling backward, he stared at the severed chain in his grasp. The darkness had licked at the edges, disintegrating a portion of the watch. The once-pristine casing was now jagged, sparking faintly.

In his frantic turn—grabbing the pocket watch, pushing off to escape—he had stepped too close. The sharp ends of his coat tails had brushed against the void. Whatever this abyss was, it did not return what it took. The fabric didn’t tear or fray—it simply ceased to exist, as if dipped in acid. The cut was eerily precise, the edges smooth where they had touched oblivion.

His heart pounded as he glanced down at the damage. Thin copper wiring ran through the fabric, part of the coat’s built-in circuitry—something he had designed himself. It was supposed to conduct and disperse excess energy. But nothing could defend against that void. Not even his own technology.

He turned and ran.

As the man ran, he shoved the journal into the leather satchel slung at his side. He leaped over heaps of trash clogging the alleyways, his boots skidding on the damp stones as he reached a dead end. With no time to stop, he threw his weight into the nearest door.

Crashing into a house through a back door, he found a family huddled in terror. They flinched as he barreled through, knocking over a dining table in his path. “RUN!" he bellowed. "GO WEST! DON’T LOOK BACK!" He didn’t wait for them to respond.

He hesitated for only a second before slamming his shoulder into the front door, bursting through in his desperate escape. But even as he ran, the truth weighed heavy in his chest.

They weren’t going to make it.

The void didn’t move fast. If someone could resist its pull, they could outrun it at a brisk walk. But it never stopped. Never slowed. He had seen it swallow the Himalayas, consuming the towering peaks without hesitation. And now, it was here.

As he burst onto the main street, he realized he had taken so many turns that he no longer knew which direction was east. He needed to regain his bearings.

He sprinted toward the center of a large intersection, planting himself in a spot where he could see in every direction. Turning slowly, he scanned the streets, searching for familiar landmarks. The sky above was a dull gray, the city eerily still, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

He clutched the damaged pocket watch in trembling hands. The inside was filled with circuits and tiny crystals—technology centuries beyond 1828. He wound the right knob, adjusting the hour and minute hands. But the lower portion was gone.

A scream echoed down the street, snapping him back into the present. His eyes flicked toward the sound, then past it—toward the east. He saw it. The black wave, slow but relentless, devouring everything in its path.

There was no reason to run. It was still many blocks away. But if the pocket watch was truly broken, there would be no fixing it, no escaping what was coming. He stood in the open, knowing anyone looking out could see him.

Taking a steadying breath, he wound the knob on the right, the way one would wind an ordinary pocket watch. Then, he turned the knob on the left, setting the hour and minute hands. But the bottom portion of the watch face was gone. The minute hand jutted into empty space where the 7 should have been.

Would it work like this?

With a final surge of hope, he grasped the top bangle where the chain would have attached and gave it two quick turns. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and pressed it in.

A sputtering sound. Sparks rained from the exposed opening at the bottom. Smoke curled from the broken gears.

He opened his eyes. Failure.

He pressed again. And again. Nothing. Just more smoke. More sparks.

His knees hit the cobblestones.

This was it.

After all these years, after everything—this was how it would end. Alone, in the middle of a London intersection in 1828, watching the void consume the world.

His eyes burned as they welled with tears. With a trembling hand, he reached beneath his shirt, fingers closing around the chain resting against his heart. He grasped it tightly, then yanked—snapping the chain free from his neck.

Holding the locket in his open palm, he slowly flipped it open.

A soft hum filled the air as a holographic image flickered to life above it.

There they were. Javan Jr. and Shiloh.

His son, no older than five, running barefoot through the grass, his laughter ringing through the air. His wife chasing after him, her dress flowing as they tumbled into the tall weeds. The boy shrieked with joy as a butterfly danced above them, both mother and child collapsing into uncontrollable laughter.

The image played like a scene from a dream—one that belonged to another lifetime.

A life long gone.

A life he had spent every moment trying to reclaim.

And now… it was slipping away.

Tears welled in his eyes as he watched them, trapped in time, in memory. He watched the holographic movie play through. He closed the locket in his hand tightly and held it to his heart. He hadn’t realized how close the darkness had crept until it was nearly upon him.

Then—a shock. A jolt through his fingers. The locket chain dangled across his leg, touching the exposed circuitry of the pocket watch. Electricity surged between them. His breath caught.

The lockets chain was made from superconductor. A material not to be discovered for another 250 years. It is able to conduct the electricity that is needed.  It could work.

With newfound urgency, he tore the locket’s chain free, unraveling a single link. Hands shaking, he bent it into a U-shape.

He had one shot.

With steady hands, he carefully placed the chain link. One end touched the crystal-like power source, sparking faintly. The other end needed to connect to the circuit board. Just a little closer—

It slipped.

The delicate link tumbled from his fingers, vanishing between the uneven cobblestones.

"No—!"

He dropped to his knees, clawing at the gap, trying to pry the stone loose, but the link was gone—irretrievable.

A deep hum vibrated through the street. The darkness loomed, curling hungrily around the edges of buildings, mere feet away.

Panic took hold. In his frantic scrabbling, his grip on the remaining chain faltered. Half of it flung from his grasp—straight into the void. It vanished instantly.

His breath hitched.

But in his other hand, he still clutched what little remained. Five inches of chain. Not enough. Maybe just enough.

With a sharp inhale, he forced himself onto unsteady feet and ran.

He didn't know how far, how many blocks. Only when his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out did he stop.

The blackness was out of sight. For now.

His hands trembled. One gripped the broken pocket watch so tightly the intricate designs pressed into his palm. The other clenched the last few inches of chain—the last chance he had left.

Both hands trembling, he staggered toward the watchmaker’s shop. He gripped the door handle and twisted—locked.

His eyes darted to the side. A brick rested at the edge of the wall. Without hesitation, he grabbed it and hurled it through the glass. The shatter rang out into the empty street, shards scattering across the floor.

Reaching through the jagged frame, he found the lock and turned it. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside.

The air smelled of oil and aged wood. Rows of timepieces ticked softly, oblivious to the chaos outside. But he had no time to notice.

At the back of the shop sat the watchmaker’s workbench. He rushed toward it, pulling himself onto the stool. His forearm swept across and clearing the leather workspace, sending tiny gears and delicate parts flying. Metal clattered as they rolled across the pristine floor, but he didn’t care.

The pocket watch lay before him. The last few inches of chain in his grasp.

This had to work.

The rest of the chain clattered onto the table as he pushed it aside. His fingers trembled slightly—whether from exhaustion, adrenaline, or the weight of what was at stake, he wasn’t sure.

His eyes darted around the dimly lit workshop. There had to be something to help him make this work. Then, on a shelf just behind him, he spotted a pair of magnification glasses.

Snatching them up, he moved to put them on—only to realize he was still wearing his tinted glasses. With a frustrated grunt, he ripped them from his face and tossed them aside. They hit the floor with a spark and a faint sizzle, tiny bursts of blue light flickering as the delicate electronics inside shorted out.

Ignoring the loss, he slipped on the magnification glasses, their lenses bringing the intricate components of the pocket watch into sharper focus.

Carefully, he picked up the modified chain link with the small pliers, ensuring the bend was precise. This had to work. He had no more chain to spare.

With the pocket watch steady in his right hand, he guided the link into place. One side touched the crystal-like power source; the other reached toward the exposed circuit board.

A sharp, electric snap echoed through the shop as the chain link made contact. A spark danced between the exposed circuitry and the crystal-like power source.

His breath hitched.

The second hand twitched. Then again. And then—movement.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The pocket watch had come back to life.

Was it really working?

He swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he cradled the device. There was only one way to know.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His thumb hovered over the top bangle where the chain had once been.

A final deep breath.

Eyes closed.

He pressed it in.

Chapter 2 - The String

The room flashed and lit up in a blinding burst of white. A static charge prickled against his skin, raising the hairs on his arms. Then, just as quickly, the light fractured, scattering into countless reflections. Every wall became a mirror, stretching infinitely in all directions, trapping him in an endless hall of his own image. His breath hitched. His reflection stared back at him—no, hundreds of them. Each one moving in perfect unison.

Then, without warning, the mirrors shattered.

A deafening, crystalline explosion filled the air as a cascade of jagged shards broke free from the walls, catching the light as they spiraled around him. The sound was piercing—like a thousand wine glasses cracking at once, sharp enough to make his ears ring. Instinctively, he flinched, raising an arm to shield his face, but the shards didn’t cut him. Instead, they danced, suspended in midair, orbiting around an emerging point of darkness.

The reflections vanished. Behind the mirrors, there was no wall—only an endless void, a vast chasm of pure black. And at its center, a tiny circle of swirling nothingness, pulsing like a beating heart. The broken fragments of glass swirled toward it, drawn in like iron shavings to a magnet. At first, they moved lazily, drifting through the air in spirals. Then, as if something had flipped a switch, they accelerated, whipping past him like a fierce gust of wind funneling into a drain.

He steadied himself, planting his feet firmly on the invisible ground beneath him. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, but he forced himself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. He knew this moment was coming. He had prepared for it.

His fingers curled into fists.

The pull of the void grew stronger. The very air around him felt like it was stretching, bending toward that singularity. A low, droning hum reverberated through the space, a deep vibration that rattled in his bones. The last fragments of the mirrors were hurdling towards the darkness, and the room—if he could even call it that anymore—felt weightless. The pull intensified. It was time.

The man twirled his coat closed in one swift motion, the heavy fabric snapping against his legs. He pulled his hat down tight, its brim casting a shadow over his eyes, and flipped his collar up high, leaving only the narrowest slivers of skin exposed to the swirling chaos around him. The air crackled with tension, the pull of the void growing stronger. He had no time for hesitation.

As the wave of mirror shards spiraled past him, he braced himself, planting his feet and locking his muscles. The tiny slivers of glass howled through the air, whistling like knives as they ricocheted off his coat and hat. He barely flinched. He had done this before. He knew how to protect himself.

Then—the jolt.

It hit like a lasso yanking him off his feet, a brutal force wrapped around his waist and pulling with the strength of a galloping horse. His breath punched out of his lungs as he was wrenched forward, hurtling into the void. The world blurred, streaks of light and darkness twisting together as the singularity consumed him. The pressure squeezed at his chest, the force dragging him faster, deeper. The rush of wind roared in his ears, but he didn’t panic. He tucked his chin, kept his body tight, let the momentum carry him.

This wasn’t new. He knew the drill.

The shards clattered against him, bouncing harmlessly off his thick coat. The darkness swallowed everything, an endless abyss stretching in every direction. But he wasn’t afraid. He was ready.

And then—everything flipped.

Through the hole he was pulled, an unstoppable force dragging him into the unknown. The entire room of shattered mirror fragments followed, spiraling around him like a shimmering storm, caught in the same relentless current. He didn’t fight it. He let the momentum carry him, plunging into the abyss beyond.

Then—everything shifted.

The darkness gave way to something else. A space between spaces. A place without direction, without gravity, without time as most would understand it. The shards that had surrounded him no longer moved like objects in freefall. Instead, they drifted, stretched, elongated—warped in ways that defied logic.

He was in the temporal zone.

Yes, this is time travel. But explaining it? That’s another matter entirely.

Right now, as you sit reading this book, your world’s best theories aren’t even close. Some say time is like a string, a thread to be pulled or twisted. Maybe. But not really. Some believe you must reach the speed of light to break through. They’re getting warmer, but still centuries away from understanding the truth.

If you had 200 more years of experiments—ones you haven’t even begun yet—you might start to grasp it. But for now, forget what you think you know.

Because time doesn’t work the way you believe it does.

Imagine complete darkness. Not the kind you’ve known—the kind where a campfire dies out, or your flashlight runs out of batteries in the woods. Even then, the stars and the moon give you something. This is different. This is absolute. A void so complete, you can’t tell if it stretches on forever or if you’re trapped inside a space no larger than yourself. There is no up, no down, no sense of distance. Just nothing.

And yet, in the center of this nothingness, there is light.

A tunnel of it surrounds the traveler, hugging close, no wider than the reach of his fingertips. It moves with him, but not in the way light should. It doesn’t glow—it shimmers, unstable, shifting like something half-remembered. He stretches his arms outward, and even at full extension, his fingertips begin to blur, dissolving into the strange glow.

The colors that surround him aren’t solid. They flicker in holographic waves, tiny dashes of rainbow light shifting in and out of focus. They remind him of reflections on water—fluid, ephemeral, always slipping just beyond clarity. But there’s something else.

Faces. Places.

If you look closely, if you stare into the shifting dashes long enough, you will swear you can see them. Fleeting glimpses of people, buildings, landscapes that almost exist. They hover at the edge of recognition, teasing you with their familiarity. But the moment you focus, the moment you try to truly see, they scatter like mist, dissolving into the ever-moving tunnel of color.

It’s a corridor of time itself—fragile, shifting, barely holding together.

And you are right in the middle of it.

It truly feels like being dragged. That rope around your waist, cinched impossibly tight, pulling you forward with no regard for your will. There’s no resisting it. No fighting back. You are weightless yet tethered, powerless to do anything but surrender to the force leading you to wherever—whenever—you’re meant to go.

And here, in this place, time doesn’t exist.

Try to count the seconds, and the numbers slip from your mind before you finish them. Try to measure the moments, and they dissolve like sand through your fingers. Have you been here for seconds? Minutes? Days? Weeks? The more you grasp for time, the more it escapes you. It’s like trying to hold onto a dream that vanishes the moment you wake.

We still don’t know everything about time travel. Not even close.

Are we shifting the future, rewriting reality itself? Or are we simply carving new paths, creating whole new timelines that branch endlessly beyond our sight? We don’t know if this is safe. If it ever was. If it ever will be.

We just know it’s the only way.

The man looked down. His pocket watch was still clenched tightly in his hand, his knuckles white from the grip. Sparks flickered off its edges, remnants of the tear in space left by the dark void. The hands of the watch spun wildly, racing forward at a hundred times their normal speed, an erratic blur of gold and shadow. But the chain link had worked. He had escaped.

Just to get back with his—

A sudden spike of panic shot through him.

Did he have it?

His free hand moved instinctively, patting down his sides, his chest, searching. He felt the familiar weight beneath his coat, the rough spine pressing against his ribs. His journal. Still tucked safely in his side bag. A breath of relief escaped him.

Every note, every calculation, every detail he had scrawled—it was all still with him. Proof of what he had seen. Evidence of what they still didn’t understand.

He had made it through. Now, he could begin to make sense of it.

All of a sudden, he had a feeling—one he had never experienced on these trips before. A prickling unease crawled over his skin, something foreign in a place that had always felt empty. It had never been clear whether this space existed in his mind or if his physical body truly traveled here. But this time was different.

Something was here.

A second tunnel ran alongside his own, just at the edge of his perception. The more he tried to focus on it, the less it seemed to exist, like staring into a mirage that shimmered and disappeared. Yet the sensation of another presence only grew stronger. His breath came faster. Then, from the depths of that other tunnel, something shifted.

A shadow.

It wasn’t just a trick of the dark—it had weight, movement, intention. A silhouette, barely visible, like ink bleeding into the void. A person? A thing? He strained to make out details, but it was like staring at a shape underwater, its edges dissolving the harder he tried to focus.

Then it moved.

Did it just see me?

The thought sent a jolt through his chest, an instinctive tightening of his muscles as if bracing for impact. The shadow wavered, then darted back, disappearing into the nothingness. Running? Hiding? Or waiting? His pulse hammered in his ears.

Before he could react, the world lurched. Everything around him squeezed inward, crushing down as if the space itself had been turned inside out. His body, or his mind—whatever part of him traveled here—was being funneled, twisted, forced through an impossibly small gap. The blackness swallowed him, pulling him through a pinhole that wasn’t there.

Then—

Silence.  The ride was over.

Chapter 3  —  White

The room was bathed in an unnatural radiance, a stark, all-encompassing light that left no room for shadows. It didn’t come from any visible bulbs or fixtures—it simply existed, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once. The walls, impossibly white, seemed to stretch infinitely, their sterile perfection untouched by even the faintest imperfection.

In the corner stood a machine, no bigger than a standard shower stall, yet its presence dominated the space. A frosted, man-sized door obscured whatever lay within. Its surface was smooth, seamless, as if carved from a single piece of material that wasn’t quite glass, wasn’t quite metal.

From the machine’s base, thick, transparent cables snaked outward like veins of a living organism. They pulsed with light—streams of energy coursing through them in rhythmic waves, rising and falling as if the machine itself were breathing. The cables stretched toward the far side of the room, fusing into a much larger, hulking apparatus. This secondary machine thrummed with a low, vibrating hum, its core pulsing like a heartbeat. The power source.

The whole setup looked as though it had been ripped straight from the pages of a sci-fi novel. A classic time machine, yet more refined—less gears and levers, more sleek efficiency. There was no mistaking its purpose. Whatever this was, wherever it came from, it wasn’t just a concept anymore.

It was real.

In the middle of the room stood a sleek, metallic desk, its surface pristine and unblemished. Multiple monitors were mounted above it, arranged in a seamless arc. Their screens flickered with constant streams of equations, symbols, and shifting waveforms—calculations running in an endless loop. The numbers twisted and reformed at a dizzying pace, as if the system were simulating possibilities over and over, refining something too complex for the human mind to grasp.

The soft glow of the monitors was the only break in the room’s stark whiteness, casting faint reflections on the polished floor. A low, rhythmic hum emanated from the machinery, punctuated by the occasional rapid clicking of unseen processors working at incomprehensible speeds.

This wasn’t just a workstation—it was a control hub. A nerve center for something beyond ordinary comprehension. Whatever was being calculated here wasn’t just theoretical. It was in motion.

Time itself might be bending at the push of a button.

One of the walls was dominated by a massive, illuminated board, its surface glowing faintly in the sterile light. It was covered in a chaotic sprawl of numbers, symbols, and erratic scribbles, as if someone had been trapped here for days, frantically trying to unravel the secrets of the universe. Some equations were neatly boxed, others slashed through in frustration, leaving behind a tangled mess of unfinished thoughts and impossible calculations.

Lines connected certain figures like constellations in an abstract sky, looping back on themselves as if the writer had been chasing an answer that remained just out of reach. Strange symbols—some recognizable, others seemingly invented—were scrawled in the margins, their meaning lost to all but the mind that had put them there.

Despite the madness in the scribbles, there was a pattern—an intelligence behind the chaos. A breakthrough was buried somewhere in that storm of numbers. Or perhaps, a warning.

Another wall was unlike the others. It wasn’t white, wasn’t sterile—it was alive with motion. The entire surface functioned as a massive screen, divided into multiple shifting camera feeds. Each feed flickered between different locations, scenes unfolding in real time. The images were grainy yet sharp enough to be unmistakable. This was military.

Soldiers moved with precision through dense urban streets, their weapons raised, scanning for unseen threats. Some feeds showed them in formation, others caught in sudden bursts of action—gunfire, shouting, bodies dropping. In one quadrant of the screen, civilians ran for cover as an explosion tore through a building, sending debris and dust into the air. In another, a convoy of armored vehicles rumbled down a dirt road, kicking up clouds of smoke and ash.

The feed shifted—night vision now. A heat signature, a silhouette moving in the dark. Someone running. Someone being chased.

The images weren’t random. They weren’t stock footage.

Whoever had set up this room was watching something unfold in real-time. Observing. Recording.

But for what purpose?

Against one of the walls sat a long, sturdy table—an anomaly in a room filled with cold technology. Unlike the sleek machinery and glowing monitors, the objects resting on this surface felt out of place, relics of another era.

Books. Actual books.

Thick, well-worn volumes lined the table, their spines cracked from years—maybe centuries—of handling. Some covers were faded, their embossed titles barely legible, while others remained defiantly bold, their gold lettering gleaming under the harsh, sterile light. Each one had something in common: history. Empires, revolutions, lost civilizations. Accounts of war and the rise and fall of nations. The past, preserved in ink and paper, sitting in the heart of what looked like a dystopian future.

At the end of the table, stacked haphazardly, was something even more unsettling. A pile of leather-bound notebooks, nearly identical to the one the traveler carried. Their edges were frayed, their covers worn soft from use. Some had loose pages sticking out, others bore ink stains as if their writer had scrawled in them with urgency, maybe even desperation.

These weren’t just books.

These were records. Accounts. Writings from someone who had been here before—or perhaps, from the traveler themselves.

The room, the time machine, the screens of war—none of it made sense. But this table, with its books and journals, whispered something undeniable.

This wasn’t the first time.

And finally, on yet another wall, something even more peculiar—a glass cabinet, impossibly suspended, as if defying gravity. Inside, a meticulously arranged collection of timepieces rested on velvet-lined shelves, each one a relic of its own era.

At the top, nestled in individual compartments, were pocket watches that looked like they belonged to the dawn of horology—thick, ornate, with intricate engravings and delicate hands that had measured moments long since forgotten. Some bore the wear of age, their covers tarnished, their chains twisted with time. Others gleamed, as if freshly polished, still waiting to be wound.

Below them, early wristwatches took their place—leather straps cracked with age, metal bands dented and scuffed from a century of wear. Time ticked on their faces, some perfectly synchronized, others frozen at arbitrary hours, as if the moment they stopped had been significant.

Further down, modernity took hold. Apple Watches sat in their compartments, sleek and digital, their dark screens occasionally flickering to life with ghostly notifications from networks long disconnected.

But it was the last timepiece—the one at the very bottom—that defied explanation.

A single, almost invisible sticky dot was adhered to the glass shelf, and from it emerged something impossible. A fully holographic watch, its translucent interface flickering just above the surface, shifting between styles, centuries, and functions as though it couldn’t decide which era it belonged to. Its display glowed in soft blue light, numbers and symbols rearranging with each pulse, as if waiting to be set to the right time—or the right reality.

This wasn’t just a collection.

It was a timeline, a tangible representation of time’s evolution, curated and displayed like a museum exhibit.

A deep, resonant hum filled the sterile room, growing in intensity as the machine at the center pulsed with light. The transparent cables snaking from its base surged with energy, their rhythmic glow accelerating like a quickening heartbeat. The monitors flickered wildly, equations rewriting themselves at an impossible speed, recalibrating for something unseen.

Then, with a sharp hiss, the machine’s frosted door shuddered and slid open.

The traveler stepped forward. His boots hit the pristine floor with a dull thud, dragging a fine layer of red dust—evidence of a place far from here. His breath was ragged, his body still humming with residual static from the jump. He took another step, then hesitated.

His eyes darted around the room, scanning every detail. The machine. The monitors. The table stacked with old books and journals. It all looked the same. Familiar. But was it?

His stomach tightened. The machine had brought him back—but had it brought him back right? The air felt charged, almost buzzing with an undercurrent of something unseen. Then he noticed it.

A book on the table—one he distinctly remembered leaving perfectly aligned—was now slightly askew. A tiny detail, but enough to send a ripple of unease through him.

Then the air shifted.

A deep, guttural vibration surged through the room, starting low—almost imperceptible—before escalating into a violent tremor. The lights flickered, their glow stretching unnaturally as if pulled in every direction at once. The cables pulsed erratically, surging with unstable energy.

Then the shockwave hit.

It tore through the air like a rupture in reality itself. The walls warped, bending like liquid, as if time was folding in on itself. A crushing pressure wrapped around the traveler’s chest, his breath stolen as the force sent him staggering. The surveillance feeds on the massive wall-screen flickered violently—images of cities, people, and landscapes colliding in impossible sequences, past and future bleeding together in an incomprehensible storm.

The floor beneath him pulsed. A deep, seismic crack reverberated through the room—not of stone or metal breaking, but of time itself fracturing.

His vision blurred. The world twisted.

The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was the glass cabinet of timepieces. The holographic watch at the bottom flickered madly, cycling through years, centuries, millennia—until it froze on a time that hadn't yet come to pass.

Then, everything went black.

Chapter 4 - The Butterflies

Gavin frolicked through the tall grass, his laughter ringing through the warm afternoon air. Emily, his mother, sat nearby, plucking a dandelion from the earth. With a playful smile, she blew upon it, sending delicate white seeds drifting into the breeze. She giggled as she made a wish, watching her son chase after the floating specks like tiny stars.

At just five years old, Gavin was a bundle of energy—curious, adventurous, and full of life. The sky above stretched in an endless blue, the sun casting a perfect warmth over the field. A light breeze whispered through the grass, making the world feel weightless, as if time itself had paused just for them.

Gavin’s laughter swelled as he stretched out his hand, a butterfly landing delicately on his outstretched finger. His eyes widened in amazement. “Dad! Dad, look at it!” he shouted, his excitement overflowing.

Just yards away, Henry sat, seemingly untouched by the golden afternoon. His eyes barely lifted from the book in his hands—Quantum Physics and Time—before offering a small, distracted smile. Beside him, a leather-bound notebook lay open, its pages filled with chaotic scribbles—equations, diagrams, and symbols that seemed to dance between brilliance and madness. A pen rested on the crease, as if frozen mid-thought.

Henry was a man of science, a mind always chasing the infinite. He studied, he calculated, he dreamed of unlocking something god-like. But in doing so, he often drifted further from the simple, fleeting miracles right in front of him.

Emily watched him from the corner of her eye, her laughter softening. She sighed, brushing a strand of hair from her face before turning back to Gavin, who was still marveling at the butterfly.

The delicate creature fluttered its wings once, twice—then lifted away, carried by the breeze. Gavin chased after it for a few steps, arms outstretched, before spinning back to his mother.

“Did you see that, Mom? It liked me!” he beamed.

Emily scooped him up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Of course it did, sweetheart. Everything is drawn to kindness.”

Her gaze drifted back to Henry, her smile fading slightly.

“Henry,” she called, her voice light but laced with something deeper—something tired. “Come join us. Just for a little while.”

Henry blinked, as if surfacing from another world. His fingers hovered over the notebook, tracing the lines of ink, the thoughts that consumed him. For a moment, hesitation flickered in his expression—was there time for this? Was this moment important enough?

Then, slowly, he closed the book.

Gavin ran toward him, grabbing his hand. “Come on, Dad!”

With a deep breath, Henry stood, allowing his son to pull him forward. The notebook remained on the ground, its pages fluttering in the wind, waiting.

For now, the universe could wait.

Gavin danced through the field, arms outstretched, chasing after the butterflies that had been swept up in the rolling breeze. The grass bent in waves, undulating like the surface of the sea as the gust rushed through. Each delicate butterfly, caught mid-flight, was carried away for several feet before regaining control. Gavin reached for one just as the wind lifted it beyond his grasp, his fingers brushing empty air.

Laughter filled the afternoon.

This family didn’t have many days like this—days when time didn’t matter, when worries faded into the warmth of the sun and the rustling of the tall grass.

Henry curled Emily into his arms, the two of them giggling as they watched Gavin flit about, as carefree as the creatures he chased. He ran in circles, flapping his arms wildly, then suddenly grabbed the small picnic blanket they had been using as a makeshift table. As he yanked it up, the basket tipped, sending an apple and a few glass containers rolling onto the grass.

Gavin threw the blanket over his shoulders, gripping it tightly in both hands like wings. With a dramatic leap, he declared, “Look, Mom! Look, Dad! I’m a butterfly!”

Laughter erupted again, deep and uninhibited, the kind that left their stomachs aching. Gavin twirled, jumped, and flapped, his little feet barely touching the earth as he imagined himself taking flight. Eventually, his boundless energy waned, but his mind kept whirring.

He stopped playing and started watching.

Crouching low, Gavin studied a single butterfly hovering just inches from his face. He watched how the wind toyed with it, how it fought to stay in place but remained at the mercy of the air. It tried so hard, but it was lighter than a feather—what chance did it have?

Across the field, Henry and Emily noticed another gust approaching, visible in the bending grass sweeping toward them. Henry nudged Emily with a knowing smile. “Watch this,” he murmured. He could already picture Gavin’s reaction when the gust hit the butterfly head-on. Would he be shocked? Delighted?

But what neither of them knew was that Gavin had been watching, too. He had seen the pattern, studied the movement, understood the invisible force shaping the world around him.

Just as the gust reached him, Gavin took a deep breath—then blew.

A perfect, deliberate counterforce.

Not only did his breath resist the wind, but it actually sent the butterfly drifting backward. For a fleeting moment, Gavin had overpowered nature itself.

Emily gasped, eyes wide with amazement. Henry grinned in pure astonishment.

Then, mid-laugh, Henry’s arms suddenly loosened around Emily. His expression shifted—his mind was already elsewhere. Without a word, he nearly dropped her as he rushed back to the picnic, grabbing his leather-bound notebook.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

His pen moved furiously, scribbling notes, equations, diagrams.

“Henry!” Emily called, her voice edged with frustration. “Henry, come back over.”

But it was useless.

She could see it in his eyes—he was gone again.

CHAPTER 5 -

Before ChatGPT

Chapter 1 - The pen

  His eyes seemingly locked on. This boy couldn’t be but more than 16. Dressed in clothes that didn’t look like they fit him. The coat was too large. The pants were too short. Shoes with holes in them. The streets were his home. He sat in the dark corner of this Tavern. The crowd was quite large for the middle of a weekday. Everyone appeared to be concerned. Talking amongst themselves about what to do. Which way out of the city was safe. Others were ordering ale as if the world was ending. As far as anyone knows it might be. This boy was not paying attention to any of the talk. Through the horde of people he had his gaze set to the man with the pen. The seemingly only half calm person in the establishment.

  The pen danced across the paper. Pages filled from top to bottom. Notes along the sides. They fill up with what some might call madness. This man just appears he needs to get everything onto paper before he forgets any of it. There was something about this pen though. It appeared to not run out of ink. Though there is a bottle of ink on the table. This mad didn’t dip the pen once. It filled pages and pages of his leatherbound book with words and pictures. But still it did not runout of ink. Everyone in the establishment appeared to be pre-occupied. Everyone except for that street kid.

  This pen was exceptional. As if it didn’t fit in with everything around. A pen that didn’t need an ink well dipping every other word had not have heard of. The boy knew there had to be something special about this guy. Not only did the writing mans pen not fit in. Everything about him was just off by a bit. His trousers were of a new fashion trend that had just started in London. Though the blue fabric had a slight shimmer that hadn’t been seen before. His shirt a cream color but void of any dirt. How was he to keep so clean walking down the dirty London streets. His coat lay folded across the table next to him. It was a more formal coat than the rest of the men in the room. Everything about this man with the pen appeared to be from not this part of town.

  A loud crash was heard as a half full mug of ale was broken over a patrons head. The tavern was ablaze with anger and fear of rumors. It started to look more like a mosh pit than a tavern. The crowd was well above the limits that it could take. And with a bad energy. This did not seem to phase the man with the pen. Then someone bumped him. At the same time his coat fell to the floor. He picked it up to put it back on the table and noticed it was lighter than he expected. He reached into his inside pocket to find it empty. Quickly he looked to the floor. Then dropped out of the chair to his knees. He frantically scoured the well worn wooden floors where the coat had landed. To find nothing his face went from panic to straight horror. It was gone. He knew it was in his coat pocket when he set the coat down. Where could it have gone. The only time he didn’t have his coat within sight is when it hit the floor. Why did it fall, and why was it at the exact time he was bumped. From below the table he did a quick scan of the room. Through all the legs of the patrons he saw the front door open. That street kid with the tattered clothes was sneaking out. While everyone was hiding inside the establishment. This was the only person trying to get out. Then he saw the flash. The sunlight hit the pocketwatch that the kid was holding. There was an unmistakable reflection from it. This pocket watch, like everything that the pen man owned, did not seem like it belonged in this era. The pen man yelled “Stop boy” as the kid looked back and then dashed off. The man wadded up his book, pen and hat into one arm and his coat into the other. He crashed into people and through those who were crammed in the tavern. He barely made it to the door where he slammed it open.

  Outside the light was odd. There was a grayness to the sky that had not been seen before. It was near noon and the sky was clear, but it wasn’t blue. Shadows didn’t seem present. You couldn’t see shadow because the light that was there wasn’t from the sun. It was just light. The streets were empty which is abnormal for this time of day. The wind almost blew the hat from his head. A newspaper flew from down the road and stuck to the hitching post. The hitching post was baron of horses, but the horse leads were still there, broken. The newspaper stuck and flapping showed a headline “Is the end near?”

  As the man caught his step on the cobble stone road. He searched each direction up and down the road for that street kid. He caught a very quick glimpse of someone ducking into an alley three stores down. He threw his coat over his shoulder and ran that direction and into the alley. The alley was cluttered with rubbish as he tripped over it running after the boy. There was a foul smell of decay. The old food thrown out from businesses lined the alley. Usually it was eaten by stray dogs and rats. It appears that those haven’t been around in a couple days. As he got to the back of the buildings there was an an adjoining back alley. He got there and looked left and right. No sign of the child. The alleys in London were a maze. He had little chance to find this kid. But he knew he had to or all would be lost. So he just chose a direction and ran. After a couple twists and turns he got to a offshoot alley. Just as he got there he could see the child.

  The street kid was just standing there in the middle of the alley stiff. It was as if he was frozen, was it fear or a trance. He stared down the alleyway at a darkness. The darkness was like a wave. It engulfed everything. The ground, the sky, the buildings on either side. It was as if it was the edge of everything and there wasn’t  anything beyond. It had a calming low volume buzz. It was a feeling of the end of everything. But somehow that felt ok that it was coming. And it was slowly moving towards the child. The man with the pen yelled “Hey kid, look away” as he rustled in his breast pocket for some very awkward glasses. These glasses appeared to be tinted a red. But sunglasses did exist yet. “Kid, look at me, don’t let it talk to you!” He yelled again. The kid did not even blink as the blackness devoured everything drawing closer to him. “Kid, Kid, Kid!” He yelled one more time! As it appeared it may be his last chance. He then noticed his arms as his sides. There was a chain dangling from his right hand. That chain looked very familiar. It was the chain from the mans pocket watch. This means that the child still had it, maybe shoved up his sleeve. Just then the boy reached out towards the approaching darkness that was just beyond his fingertips now. One last blood curdling yell the man let out. “KID, GET AWAY FROM IT!” With no reaction. The man twirled the coat he had been carrying onto his back and lunged towards the kid. He was a few feet away and in that time the blackness had engulfed all the way up his outstretched arm and his front leg that was reached out as the kid was walking into the darkness. As that walk started the other arm lurched back and the chain flailed away backwards. The man skidding to a stop caught the last couple links of the chain and pulled as he changed direction to run away. The nothingness fully engulfed the child just as the man yanked the pocket watch from his hand. And the child was gone. As the man slid on the trash covered cobble alley he tried to get traction to get away from the looming darkness. The ends of his coat tails sizzled with a burning, electric energy. In his turn while grabbing the pocket watch and escaping the pointy ends of his coat tails had entered the void. Whatever this void was it did not return the ends as the man escaped. It was as if they were dipped in acid. They were sliced off right where they touched it. It also appeared that weaved into the fabric was very thin copper wiring. Maybe a circuit of sorts.

  As the man ran away he threw the journal he had been carrying into a leather satchel that he had been carrying on his side. He jumped over the trash piling up in the alleys. Slid as he hit an end and crashed into a back door into an adjoining house. The people inside were all huddled together in a corner of the front room. They all jumped as he threw the dining table over out is way and headed for the front door. “RUN” he yelled at them “RUN WEST AND DON’T LOOK BACK!” As he paused for a second before putting his shoulder into the front door to get through it faster. It was in that moment that he knew there was no way they were going to get away. No way they were going to escape. This void doesn’t move fast. If a person could resist its trance they could walk faster than it moves. But it doesn’t stop. He had seen it devour the Himalayas and not even slow down.

  As he got to the main street, he had taken enough turns that he didn’t know which direction was East anymore. He  ran to middle of a large intersection so that he could keep an eye on every direction. As he slid his down the chain to put the pocket watch in his hand. He looked down to see it had suffered the same fate as his coat tails. He hadn’t pulled it away in time. The void had reached it and taken away the bottom edge. He panicked as he saw this. Tipping it up to see inside, he could see the inside filled with circuits and crystals. This pocket watch wasn’t anything that someone from the 1800’s should own. As he flipped open the lid of the watch, sizzles and sparks fell from the opening in the body. Could this be it. If it’s broken is all lost?

  A scream from down the street was heard. It snapped him into the here and now. He found which way was East as the black wave was slowly erasing everything as it approached. There was no reason to run. It was many blocks away. But if the pocket watch was broken he knew it couldn’t be fixed anyways and running is useless. He knew anyone looking out could see him. And he He wound the knob on the right as one would do to wind a pocket watch. He turned the knob on the left setting the hour and minute hands. Missing though was the bottom ticks of the watch. The minute had was sticking out over the open edge where the 7 would be. Would it work like this? He grabbed the top bangle where the chain attached, spun it 2 turns. He closed his eyes, held his breathe and pressed it in. Sparks fell from the gaping hole at the bottom as smoke sprinkled out. He opened his eyes and knew it was a fail. He pressed again, and again. Still nothing but smoke and sparks. He fell to his knees. This was it. All these years and it was going to end like this. In the middle of 1828 London street intersection. As his eyes started to swell and tear up. He reached from inside his and grabbed the chain from around his neck and drew the locket that dangled at his heart. With a quick pull he snapped the chain from his neck. He held out the locket from his flat open hand. He opened the locket and from it arose the holograph of his son Javan Jr and wife Shiloh. The holograph played like a movie with his young sun playing in the grass with his wife. They chased the butterfly and fell into tall weeds and laughed uncontrollably. A memory to him that was many lives ago. A memory that he always wanted to keep and hope returns.

  The void had crept closer while he watched that holographic movie play out. He did not pay attention that it was getting closer. He was stuck there and knew he had no way to escape. As the holograph started to repeat for the third time the darkness swallowed the houses just one block away. He closed the locket he had been holding out in front of him and clinched it in his hand tight. He brought that clinched fist to his heart. His eyes closed as tears poured down his face. He was giving in to everything. Giving in to the fact that this was the end.

  A sudden shock to his hand that was clinching the locket happened. His eyes opened wide. What had happened, what shocked him. The chain on the locket left a sizzle up his bent over knees. The other end of the broken chain had laid down across his legs and was dangling on the ground. It had touched the opening in the pocket watch and conducted from the electricity inside. Suddenly that feeling of giving up was gone. The locket chain was made of super conductor. Something that wasn’t to be invented for another 250 years. The one material that could potentially carry the current needed to fix the pocket watch. He slid the locket off and placed it in his shirt pocket. Twisting on the chain end he was able to snap one link apart and open. The other sides of the chain slid down his kneeling legs and rested on the ground. He uncurled the single link as well as he could. It now resembled a U shape. Possibly enough to do the job. From between his legs he grabbed the pocket watch and flipped the bottom towards him so he could seen inside the mechanism. Knowing he only had one shot at it. He gently placed the chain link. One side touched the crystal like piece that appeared to be the power source. The other side he tried to touch to the circuit board. It didn’t quite reach. As he pulled it out to give it another bend it fumbled and dropped between the cobble stones in the street. He scratched at the hole to try and get it out. There was no way he was going to reach it. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the approach of the darkness was only within feet now. As he desperately dug he flung one half of the remaining chain into the void to be gone forever. The other half he grasped firmly. Onto his feet he then was. Running down the road to give himself more time. He was unsure how many blocks down he stopped. Gasping for breathe he made it far enough he couldn’t see the blackness. In one trembling hand he grasped the pocket watch hard enough that it imprinted the fancy details into his skin. The other hand he had wadded up about 5 inches of links of the locket chain. Both hands trembling he walked up to a watch makers store. As he wiggled the door handle he found it to be locked. A nearby brick lay at the edge of the wall. As he picked it up and through it threw the glass door glass went flying everywhere. He reached through the broken door to unlock it. He opened the door and walked in. At the back of the store was the watchmakers workbench. As he hurried to the back of the store and into the stool he pulled himself up to the workbench. He used his forearm to clear that leather workspace with a swipe. Tiny watch gear went flying and rolling across the nicely kept floor. On his right he placed the pocket watch on the bench. In front of him he poured the chain links out on the leather. Opening the top drawer he found where the watch makers pliers were kept. Grabbing two pair of small pliers and a pair of wire cutters he quickly slid the door closed. Using the wire cutters he cut the end link of the chain. Using the small pliers he opened that link. The rest of the chain hit the table and he scooted it aside. Looking around for something he turned and found a pair of magnification eye glasses on the shelf just behind him. As he tried to put them on he realized the tinted glasses were still on his face. Throwing them they hit the ground with a spark and a sizzle. Electronics inside of them also. Placing the magnification glasses on his nose he used the two pair of pliers to open the single chain link and bend it into a U shape. He reached for the pocket watch. Holding it in his right hand and the pliers holding the link in his left he slid it into place inside the pocket watch. A spark flickered as it touched and the second hand started to move. Was this it? Was he in luck. There was only one way to know. He closed his eyes once more today. Held his breathe and pressed down on the apparent button on the top of the watch.