Bristol – England, 6:17 PM
The halls of the engineering wing had grown quiet.
Not silent — just... cautious. Students who hadn't vanished were jittery, whispering rumors between glances at their phones. Every missing friend left behind another hole in the world. And Ishaan walked between them like a ghost still tethered.
He avoided the main corridors, favoring the back path behind the data labs. His phone buzzed endlessly — news, missed calls, alerts. He ignored them.
Then another notification.
"Local disappearance confirmed – Oxford engineering professor last seen at 5:49 PM."
Ishaan paused. Professor Caldwell.
The man who once gave him extra lab time. Who taught him to fly drones manually, to trust his instincts more than autopilot.
Gone.
He sank onto a bench behind the wind tunnel lab. Pulled his hoodie tighter. Watched the sky tilt from blue to ash-gold.
The world wasn't ending.
But it was becoming something else.
Something shifted in his vision. Not out there — inside. A faint hum beneath his skin. His synesthesia, once a private quirk, had begun to bloom.
Where once he'd seen people as faint colors of mood, now they pulsed with layers — emotions woven in light.
A girl passed by, agitated, and her aura sparked jagged violet streaks.
A campus security guard lingered near the bike racks — his fear lit orange and thin.
Ishaan's breath caught.
Calm, on the edge of fear.
But deeper — a flicker of gold.
Curiosity? No. Something older.
Something... resonating.
He retreated to his room. Blinds drawn. Drone footage replayed on loop.
Frame by frame.
That glitch.
That self.
"I think I'm seeing myself where I shouldn't be," he murmured again.
He'd tried to rationalize it. A feedback loop. Corrupted cache. Something technical.
But now he had another idea.
What if it wasn't just visual? What if he was slipping — not in time, but in space?
What if he was seeing echoes of himself in nearby phases, like vibrations trying to align?
He was beginning to destabilize.
He opened the map again — pins and alerts marking where people had vanished.
Too many to track. No pattern he could grasp. But…
He could feel it.
Not logic. Not analysis.
Just a weight deep inside, pressing closer.
Something told him:
He didn't have long.
Maybe an hour. Maybe less.
No proof. No math. Just a knowing.
The kind you don't argue with.
He leaned back.
Exhaled.
Stared at the ceiling.
"I'm not afraid to go," he whispered. "But I want to know where."
At 6:42 PM, a shimmer sparked beside his desk.
Not sound.
Not light.
Just pressure folding inward — space disagreeing with itself.
Ishaan turned slowly.
Felt something reach.
Not pulling — scanning.
His breath caught for an instant — not from fear, but resolve.
Still, his fingers trembled. His heart pounded faster than he admitted.
He stood up straight. Took a breath that felt heavier than the air.
And spoke quietly:
"Ishaan Ren Vale."
If it ever feels like you're slipping — hold your name like it's a tether.
The shimmer faded.
Not yet.
But soon.
He packed without ceremony.
Not because he expected the bags to come with him — he doubted they would — but because it gave his hands something to do. A ritual of order before surrender.
A pair of hiking boots. His notebook. A small toolkit. A half-built drone core.
Clothes. A first-aid pouch. A photo of him and his mom at the observatory.
He set it all by the door.
Then hesitated.
And picked up the phone.
She answered on the third ring.
"Ishaan?" Her voice was tired but warm.
He smiled gently. "Hey, Ma. Just wanted to hear you."
A pause. "Are you okay? You sound... different."
"I'm alright. Just... wanted to say thank you. For everything."
A longer pause. "You're scaring me."
"Don't be. Just — remember what you always said? 'If it ever feels like you're slipping — hold your name like it's a tether'?"
"Of course."
"I think I understand it now."
He swallowed.
"I might not be here tomorrow. But if there's a way back... I'll find it."
Silence.
Then her voice, soft and steady.
"I love you. Wherever you are. Wherever you go."
"I love you too, Ma."
He hung up.
And waited for the light no one could measure.