Kairo Vale sat alone in his apartment, a faded blanket wrapped around his shoulders like armor. The city lights filtered through his rain-specked window, blurring into orange and blue halos. Despite the fatigue pulling at his limbs, his eyes remained wide, alert.
The auras were still there.
When he focused, he could see them. Around people. Around things. Not exact, not fully formed—but hints. Blue tendrils. Flickering colors. Fractured outlines.
But now, something else had begun.
It started when he looked at his old wall clock. The second hand ticked rhythmically, but then—he blinked.
And it stopped.
No—it hadn't. Time continued, but something within him slowed.
In a half-second's breath, he saw a hazy, flickering after-image overlaying the room. A past imprint. The ghost of himself walking through the hallway. His own figure, arms crossed, face frustrated. From yesterday. No, maybe the day before.
And then it was gone.
He stumbled back, gasping.
A rewind? A memory? No, it wasn't his memory. It was *reality's memory.*
He pressed his hand against the wall.
It felt warm.
The pulse within his blood throbbed again. A low, intelligent vibration. Not pain—*possibility.*
Kairo turned his attention to his bedroom door, gripping the frame. Just for a test.
Focus.
For a split second, his vision split into layers—light and shadow, color and depth—and then he saw it: the inside of his cupboard through the wooden panel. A dusty box. Socks. The notebook he thought he'd lost months ago.
"Holy shit…" he muttered.
He could *see through things.*
Objects. Walls. Layers.
He stumbled backward, heart racing, then stared at his hand. Beneath his skin, veins pulsed with a strange shimmer. Not visible to the naked eye, but he *felt* the lattice—like circuits whispering under his flesh.
He needed to test it again.
Kairo threw on a hoodie and stepped outside. It was still raining lightly. The streets were mostly empty this late at night.
Passing by a convenience store, he glanced through the glass door—not at the shelves, but beyond the wall to the break room. A clerk was there, eating noodles, watching a small screen.
He blinked and looked away.
Back on the sidewalk, he passed a man walking with a hood up. As their shoulders nearly brushed, something *shifted.*
Kairo's head turned without meaning to, and he saw it:
The stranger's body outlined in red threads, and flickering around his shoulders—burned images, like charred photographs.
Scenes unfolded for an instant: a woman crying, a child's toy crushed, fists raised.
Kairo stepped back instinctively. His pulse surged.
Then—*snap.* Back to normal. The man kept walking, unaware.
What was that?
Was it... the *past*?
Kairo sat down on a nearby bench, chest tight, brain whirring.
These threads, these colors, these shifting scenes—they weren't just visual effects. They were emotional histories. Echoes.
Each person carried layers of moments. And now, somehow, Kairo could *see them.*
He took out his phone and opened the front-facing camera. Not for a selfie, but to observe.
His own image shimmered faintly. The background of the apartment hallway glitched for a second—revealing the same version of himself walking past again. An echo. A remnant. He didn't even remember pacing that much.
But above his own head—there was nothing. No number. No percentage. Not even color.
Only static. Only question marks. A fog.
"Why can't I see myself?" he whispered.
He didn't know if that was a safety mechanism—or a warning.
Later that night, lying on his bed, Kairo stared at the ceiling and tried something new.
He focused not on the world around him, but on *inside.*
For the briefest moment, the room went dark, and a timeline unfolded in front of his closed eyes—a branching path of lights. Decisions. Echoes of things that *could* have happened. One where he hadn't looked at the accident. One where he walked away. One where he *died.*
And from that moment, he realized: not only could he see the past—he could glimpse **potential futures.**
But those came with a price.
His nose bled slightly as the vision faded, and his heart pounded erratically.
He wasn't ready.
Not yet.
But the veil had lifted.
And the world was no longer simple.