Year 20XX, far beyond the age of hope.
The sky is the color of ash. What little sunlight still filters through is weak, fractured by layers of dust and radioactive clouds. Once-proud cities are now skeletal ruins, their glass and steel carcasses jutting out like broken teeth. No laughter echoes here anymore — only the wind's hollow moan over a world that had burned itself out.
I am old now… too old. Seventy-four, by my best guess. Not that years matter much anymore. Time has become meaningless in a land where there's nothing to wait for. Food is rare, water is poison, and life is a slow, stubborn act of defiance.
Humanity destroyed itself with nuclear power weapons, detonated in a spiral of pride and paranoia. I remember the day the missiles blotted out the horizon, the day the sky caught fire. I've been walking in that shadow ever since.
But… I am still here.
I don't know if I should call it luck or punishment, but I am — maybe — the only survivor.
For decades, I worked in secret, clinging to the one insane idea that kept my mind from rotting: a way back. Not just to a safer time… but to before the rot began. Not for the world's sake — that dream died with the first mushroom cloud — but for me. For the younger me. The boy who still believed the world could be beautiful.
And now, after a lifetime of obsession, of scavenging old tech from crumbling labs and wiring together relics with trembling hands… it's here. My time travel machine.
It isn't pretty. It's a coffin-shaped capsule of rusted metal and frayed cables, barely big enough for me to curl inside. It will only work once. No going back. No do-overs. My calculations say it can take me anywhere in my past — but it will burn itself out instantly after.
I could go to 1990, before the wars began. I could go to 2050, and warn them before they launch the last strike. I could go to 1987 and find my parents.
But I don't.
I choose 2012.
Why?
Because that was the year I still had hope. The year before the choices that chained me to this graveyard of a future. The year I might still listen.
I sit in the capsule, the machine humming like some old dying beast. My hands shake as I press the record button on a battered voice recorder — the kind that still works even after decades of dust and decay.
I take a breath.
> "To the me in 2012… This is you. No — this is what's left of you. You don't know me yet, but I know you better than anyone. The world's collapsing now. Humanity burned itself alive with its own foolish weapons. Nuclear fire, famine, madness… everything gone. And me… I'm probably the last.
I should give up. There's nothing here worth saving. But you… you're still there, waiting. Waiting to be saved from yourself.
Listen to me. When you reach that fork in the road, don't take it. Don't let ambition turn into obsession. Don't let pride blind you. The world will tempt you with power — but power is the root of the fire. Walk away. Please… walk away."
I pause. My voice cracks.
> "End message."
I close the recorder. The machine's core begins to heat, the air trembling with raw energy. Lights flicker around me — old, dim, but determined.
The cabin seals. My vision swims.
And then, in a single burst of sound and light…
I am gone.
The air feels wrong.
Not toxic, not heavy with ash like my time — but alive. It's warmer, brighter. The scent of rain still lingers in the streets. And for the first time in decades, I hear the chaotic background noise of a living city: traffic, distant music, children's laughter.
2012.
I stand there for a moment, letting the world wash over me. My heart aches. This place has no idea of the firestorm waiting for it decades ahead. But right now… there is hope.
And then I hear it.
Crying.
It's not the kind of crying you hear from a scraped knee or a sad movie. It's quiet, muffled… the sound of someone trying not to be heard.
I turn a corner and there he is — me.
A smaller, thinner version of myself. Maybe thirteen, maybe fourteen. Hunched against the side of the school's brick wall, clutching his bag to his chest like a shield. His uniform's wrinkled, his cheek flushed from where someone struck him.
Three boys are walking away, laughing — the kind of laughter that stings more than the punch.
I feel my jaw tighten.
Without thinking, I step forward. "Hey!"
They turn, sizing me up. Maybe I'm just some stranger to them — an old man with too much fire in his eyes. But I've fought men twice their size, and survived winters colder than their courage.
"Apologize," I say, my voice flat but heavy.
They scoff, mutter something under their breath… but when I take one slow, deliberate step toward them, they stop. One of them mumbles a weak "sorry" before they all scatter like pigeons.
I kneel down.
He looks at me — my younger self — with a mix of suspicion and confusion. His eyes are wet, but he's trying to hold himself together.
"You okay, kid?"
He nods, though I know the lie.
"You don't know me," I say quietly, "but I know you. I know what it's like to feel… small. To feel like you can't fight back. Like the world's too heavy for you to carry."
His lips tremble, but he doesn't speak.
"You're stronger than you think," I tell him. "The people who hurt you? They don't decide your worth. You do. And one day… you'll look back and realize this moment didn't break you. It woke you up."
He blinks, trying to understand. In his eyes, I'm just a stranger who showed up out of nowhere. But something deep inside him — inside me — is listening.
"Why… why are you telling me this?" he finally asks.
I smile faintly, even though my chest feels heavy.
"Because this one day… will change everything."
He doesn't know it yet. But I do.
I stand, pat his shoulder gently, and walk away — giving him space to breathe. I'll stay close, just for today. Long enough to make sure he leaves this moment with more than bruises. Long enough to make him wake as someone new.
And as I glance back, I see it — a small, almost invisible spark in his eyes. Hope.
The kind of hope that can change the end of the world.
He still looks like a ghost of himself — small, quiet, keeping his eyes on the ground as if afraid the world might notice him.
I can't leave him like this. Not today.
"Come on," I say, and before he can question it, I lead him away from the school. He follows, hesitant, but curious enough not to pull away.
The city in 2012 is buzzing with life — a stark contrast to the dead streets I'm used to. Neon signs, bright shop windows, the smell of street food drifting through the air. For the first time in decades, I breathe without the taste of ash in my lungs.
Our first stop is the fun fair at the edge of town.
It's loud, colorful, and shamelessly alive. Children run with cotton candy bigger than their heads. The sound of rides rattling and carnival barkers shouting mixes into a chaotic song I didn't know I missed.
He stares at it all, his eyes slowly widening. I give him a handful of tickets, and we walk together — shooting hoops at the basketball stand, winning a small stuffed animal, riding the Ferris wheel as the city sprawls out beneath us. I can see the corners of his mouth twitch upward, though he's still too stubborn to fully smile.
Next, the arcade.
Rows of blinking machines, the rhythmic click-clack of buttons, and the deep bass of game soundtracks. I hand him a stack of tokens and watch as he dives into his favorite fighting game, his fingers flying across the controls. He beats the computer twice and glances at me for approval. I give him a mock-serious nod, then take the next round — and lose on purpose.
His grin is quick, almost shy, but it's there.
Then we head to the cyber café — the kind that smells faintly of instant noodles and old computers. We sit side-by-side, screens glowing in the dim room, playing co-op games against strangers halfway across the world. For a moment, there's no age gap between us. Just two players, laughing quietly, connected by pixels and reflexes.
By evening, I take him to my favorite restaurant — though in his time, it's just a cozy, unassuming place tucked between two shops. The lights are warm, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and spices.
When the waiter comes, I tell him to order anything he wants. He hesitates, then names his favorite dish and drink without realizing that I already knew. Watching his eyes widen when it arrives feels like a victory of its own.
We eat slowly, talking about nothing in particular — school, games, little pieces of life. He doesn't know who I am, not really, but I see it in the way he starts leaning forward when I speak, the way his shoulders relax.
I am not just a stranger anymore.
I am — at least for today — a father figure.
And I realize… I never had one like this. Not someone who would just sit there, listen, and make me feel like my existence mattered.
When the plates are empty, we step outside into the cool night air. He looks at me differently now — still puzzled, still curious, but with a trace of trust.
I know I can't stay. The machine only gave me this one day. But if I've done this right… it will be enough to plant something in him that will grow for the rest of his life.
I glance at the streetlights, the sky still free of the scars I know are coming.
"One day," I tell myself silently, "this will change everything."
Night has fallen.
The city below is a sea of lights — small, glittering fires scattered across the dark. From up here on the mountain, the world looks alive, unbroken. The air is crisp, carrying the faint smell of pine, the occasional chirp of crickets. This… this was the place I always wished I could have gone to when I was his age.
I guide him to the wooden bench near the cliff's edge. The view swallows us both. We sit in silence for a while, the only sound the wind brushing against the grass.
"How's school?" I ask casually.
He shrugs. "It's… fine."
"And your day?"
A pause. "…Better than usual."
I glance at him. "Don't you… want to wake up as not yourself?"
He frowns, confused by the question.
"I mean… don't you want to rise up from the version of you that everyone thinks you are? Don't you want to be better than the one they try to define?"
He stays quiet, but I can see it — the thought taking root.
I place my hand gently on his back, patting it in reassurance. My voice stays calm, steady. I tell him about strength, about not surrendering to the weight of the world, about holding on even when it feels pointless.
And as I speak, I feel it — my hand is fading. The tips of my fingers dissolve into the air, eaten away by a strange black liquid laced with golden dust. It creeps up my arm slowly, silently.
I hide it. Keep talking like nothing is wrong. He doesn't need to see this — he only needs to hear my words.
By the time the conversation ends, the horizon is a soft line of silver moonlight. It's time for him to go home.
We stand.
"Goodbye," he says politely.
"Goodbye," I answer, forcing a small smile.
He turns to walk down the mountain path, and I keep my left hand tucked into my coat, hiding the truth. But each step he takes away from me, the fading speeds up. My forearm, my elbow… the black and gold is devouring me faster now.
And yet, I feel nothing but relief. Satisfaction.
Then… his footsteps stop.
I look up.
He's running back toward me.
Before I can react, he throws his arms around me in a tight, unexpected hug.
"Thanks," he says quietly, "for… I don't know. Just… thanks, stranger."
Something inside me cracks.
In that moment, every memory — every scrap of my past — bursts through my mind like a flood: the lonely days, the fights I lost, the tears I swallowed, the laughter I forgot I had, the moments of joy and pain and everything in between. All of it blooms together in one single, eternal second.
I realize… this day with him — with me — is the most precious time I have ever wasted and the most beautiful sacrifice I could have made.
But he's looking at me now… and he sees it.
The black and gold is halfway up my chest. The edges of my body are breaking into dust.
His eyes widen, and tears spill. "W-what's happening?!"
I force a smile. "Keep rising from surrender… until you become better."
And then, the time flow begins to fix itself. The air distorts. The sound of the city below grows distant, like it's slipping underwater. My voice is the last thing I can give him.
"You're going to be more than I ever was…"
I fade completely, scattering into gold and shadow, carried away by the wind.
He's left alone on the mountain. And within seconds… he forgets why he came here. The details vanish like a dream. But something stays.
A feeling.
A conviction.
Years later… he stands on the deck of an offshore platform, the sea roaring beneath him, the wind whipping his jacket. His crewmates look to him — the most reliable man among them. He holds his chest for a moment, feeling that strange déjà vu.
He doesn't remember my face, my voice, or the night on the mountain.
But he remembers the feeling.
The promise to never surrender.
The unshakable will to rise from the ashes.
And that is enough.
The one day that changed everything.
----
Epilogue — The Feeling That Stayed
The waves hit the side of the platform in steady rhythm, a deep, echoing boom that shakes through the steel beneath my boots. The offshore air is sharp with salt, the horizon endless.
It's been years since I left the city, years since school, years since all the petty things that used to feel like the end of the world. I've seen storms that could swallow a ship whole, watched engines fail miles from land, held the hands of men who thought they wouldn't see another sunrise.
Through it all, I've never broken.
Never surrendered.
I don't know why, exactly.
It's just… there's a memory I can't fully hold on to.
Not a picture. Not a voice.
Just a feeling.
The feeling that, once — a long time ago — when I was ready to give up, when everything in me wanted to shut down and disappear…
someone was there.
Someone sat beside me.
Someone told me… something. I can't remember the words.
I can't remember their face.
But I remember the warmth. The steady hand on my back. The quiet strength in their presence.
And above all, I remember how, for the first time in my life, I didn't feel alone.
That feeling has been my anchor. The reason I stand when I'm knocked down. The reason I climb when the world tells me to fall.
I don't know who they were.
Maybe I never will.
But every time I face the choice to surrender…
I rise instead.
And in the salt-heavy wind, in the endless roar of the sea, I think — just for a heartbeat — that maybe they're still out there somewhere, watching.