The camp hadn't fully woken when Arin arrived at the command circle. Dew still clung to the ropes, and smoke from the morning fires drew thin silver threads through the air. Soldiers spoke in the kind of hush reserved for mornings after storms—grateful, cautious, unwilling to test the quiet too soon.
Inside the largest tent, voices were already at work.
> "—flux readings repeat every two hundred seconds."
"That shouldn't be possible."
"It is possible," another voice cut through, calm, even. "Because it's happening."
Arin paused at the entrance. The tone carried authority without volume, and for reasons he couldn't name, the air seemed to fall in line with it.
"Commander Valen," someone announced. "The field liaison is here."
Mira turned.
She didn't look surprised—just observant, like the moment had arrived exactly when she expected it to. Her coat was half-fastened, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair tied back in a way that made practicality look deliberate. She didn't move toward him; she simply regarded him as one would regard a variable that had just complicated an equation.
> "Solis," she said. "You're the soldier they assigned to my team?"
> "Yes, Commander."
> "You've seen flux fields before?"
> "Once. Not like yours."
> "Then let's hope you're better at pattern recognition than small talk."
The researchers shifted, half-smiling at the jab, but she didn't. She was already back to the charts spread across the table.
> "Tell me what you see here."
Arin stepped closer. The parchment was covered in tight, looping resonance lines—oscillations that reminded him of heartbeats and aftershocks at once.
> "It's repeating," he said. "But not exactly. Every fourth pulse bends left."
> "Meaning?"
> "Meaning it's not just a pattern. It's a correction."
She looked up. "Correction?"
> "Something's trying to fix its own rhythm."
A long pause.
The other analysts exchanged glances, unsure if they'd just witnessed a guess or a discovery. Mira studied him for a moment longer than protocol allowed, then spoke quietly:
> "That's not in any of our reports."
> "Maybe your reports are written by people who don't listen long enough."
That earned him a raised brow. "You're confident."
> "No," Arin said. "Just tired."
The corner of her mouth twitched—almost a smile, not quite. "Tired of what?"
> "Mistakes that pretend to be history."
Something in that answer made her pause. She looked at him again, properly this time. For a fraction of a second, it wasn't commander and soldier—it was one anomaly recognizing another.
> "You'll stay with the analysis team," she said finally. "Alina will brief you on equipment protocols."
> "Understood."
> "And Solis," she added as he turned to leave. "If you notice the rhythm changing again—don't wait for confirmation. Tell me first."
> "Why me?"
> "Because you heard it before anyone told you to listen."
He nodded once and stepped outside. The light hit him cold and bright. Alina was waiting just beyond the ropes, arms crossed, eyes somewhere between amused and impressed.
> "You survived her," she said. "That's better than most."
> "She listens more than she talks."
> "She also remembers everything you say. I hope you like being quoted in meetings."
> "As long as she quotes me right."
They started walking toward the ridge tents. Behind them, Mira's voice called out new orders, crisp, measured, certain. But for reasons he couldn't explain, Arin already knew that voice would follow him longer than the echo of any command.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint pulse from the ridge again—two beats, pause, one.
Only this time, it didn't sound distant. It sounded like the camp itself had started breathing in rhythm.
He stopped mid-step.
> "Something wrong?" Alina asked.
> "No," he said, eyes on the horizon. "Just… time reminding us it's still here."
Alina frowned, but didn't press. "Then let's hope it stays polite."
He almost smiled. "Time usually isn't."
They walked on. The ridge waited, quiet, untrusting, and very much alive.
---
A few minutes later, Nalen found him near the armory racks. His uniform was half-done, boots still muddy, the kind of mess only captains could get away with.
> "You made quite the impression," he said.
> "So I've been told."
> "Mira doesn't like soldiers. Says we break things faster than she can explain them."
> "Maybe she's right."
> "Maybe," Nalen agreed, tightening his gauntlet strap. "But she's also the only one who's been right about the ridge. That buys her a few arguments."
Arin leaned against the post. "She doesn't argue. She declares."
That earned a laugh. "Exactly. So keep your head down and your answers short. She's brilliant—but brilliance cuts if you stand too close."
> "Thanks for the warning."
> "It's not a warning," Nalen said, his tone softening. "It's advice. You've got the look of someone who's seen this all before. That bothers people."
> "Does it bother you?"
> "Only when it's true."
Nalen started to leave, then paused and looked back. "One more thing, Solis. Whatever you saw on that ridge—if it starts looking back, you tell me first."
> "Why you?"
> "Because I'll believe you."
When Nalen was gone, Arin stood for a while, watching the sun break through thin mist, painting the camp in gold that looked too fragile to trust. Somewhere behind him, Mira's voice carried again, crisp and calm, like it had always belonged to this hour.
He adjusted his coat and turned toward the ridge. The pulse had faded, but its rhythm stayed with him—steady, patient, as if the world itself was waiting for him to understand something it had already decided.
And inside the main tent, Mira Valen traced his words on the margin of her notes—something's trying to fix its own rhythm—then underlined it once, lightly, as if testing the weight of a thought that wasn't supposed to exist.
The ink shimmered under the lantern's glow, the letters almost alive.
Outside, a faint wind rolled through camp, whispering the same cadence that echoed across the ridge.
Two beats. Pause. One.
No one noticed the instruments flicker once and then fall still.
The world, it seemed, had stopped to listen.
The ridge did not sleep.
It breathed through the ground, faint and steady, the way a wounded thing tests whether the world still listens.
Mira dreamed she was standing there again—rain above, soil glowing beneath.
> "Two beats," she whispered in the dream. "Pause. One."
The pattern replied by moving through her, warm then cold, a current that spoke without words.
> "You're listening."
The voice came from everywhere—earth, wind, pulse. It didn't sound human; it sounded familiar.
She tried to answer, but her throat filled with light.
Then the ridge cracked open, spilling a white that felt alive—
—and she woke, breath caught halfway between scream and thought.
The tent walls trembled softly; instruments blinked in uneven rhythm. She looked down—her notebook lay open on the table, and the line she'd written before sleep glowed faintly:
> something's trying to fix its own rhythm.
It pulsed once. Then stopped.
Outside, the camp was quiet except for a single footstep.
> "Commander?"
She turned sharply. Arin stood just inside the entrance, coat half-buttoned, a lantern in his hand.
> "What are you doing awake?" she asked.
> "Same as you, apparently."
> "You heard it too?"
He nodded. "The ridge hummed again. Thought the instruments were lying, so I came to check."
> "And?"
> "They're not lying."
For a heartbeat, they just listened. Somewhere beyond the tents, thunder murmured—the afterthought of a storm that refused to end.
> "You ever dream about it?" she asked suddenly.
> "About what?"
> "The ridge."
> "No," he said, then paused. "Not until tonight."
That answer unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
She gestured toward the notebook. "It reacted. Light, just now."
> "Like the soil did."
> "Exactly."
> "Then it's learning faster than we are."
> "That's not comforting, Solis."
> "Didn't mean it to be."
The lantern's flame fluttered, throwing their shadows together across the wall—two shapes that almost touched but didn't.
Mira closed the notebook, slid it under another pile, and straightened. "If you're going to keep hearing things, you might as well document them properly. Sit."
> "At your desk?"
> "It's a table, not a throne."
He sat. She poured him a small measure of tea gone cold.
> "You don't sleep," he said.
> "You don't either."
> "Habit."
> "From what?"
> "Waiting for things that never happen."
She studied him for a long second. "You talk like someone twice your age."
> "Maybe I read too much history."
> "History doesn't teach tone."
> "Neither does war, but it leaves one."
That answer silenced the tent.
After a while, she said quietly, "When the ridge hums again, record the intervals. If the pulse shortens, I want to know first."
> "Why?"
> "Because change means intent. And intent means intelligence."
> "You think it's alive?"
> "I think it's listening."
He looked toward the ridge through the tent flap. "Then let's hope it likes what it hears."
---
By morning, the air had turned metallic—dry and sharp, as if the storm had left its scent behind.
Mira stepped outside with her tea untouched. Arin was already there, eyes on the horizon.
> "You stayed out all night?"
> "Couldn't sleep after the ridge sang."
> "Sang?"
> "You'll hear it too."
She frowned, more scientist than believer. "Ridges don't sing."
> "Then maybe we're the instruments."
That earned him another long stare. "Do you always talk like this?"
> "Only when I'm awake."
> "You should try silence."
> "I did. It hums back."
For a moment, she almost smiled. Almost.
Nalen's voice cut across the camp:
> "All squads assemble! Flux reading in the southern valley!"
Mira's composure snapped back instantly. "Field gear, now."
Arin was already moving. "You'll want a soldier with you."
> "You volunteering?"
> "You already assigned me."
She didn't argue. "Then keep your weapon close. We don't know what's waiting."
> "We never do," he said. "That's why we keep walking."
They moved toward the ridge again—two figures in early light, one chasing reason, the other following memory.
The wind carried the rhythm after them: two beats, pause, one.
Somewhere beneath their feet, the ground answered with a new pulse—one beat, pause, two.
Time, it seemed, had started listening back.
The valley was wrong before they even stepped into it.
It should've smelled like wet soil and moss, but the air here carried metal — faint, sharp, like lightning that forgot to fade.
Each footfall sank half an inch deeper than expected, as if the ground had learned hesitation.
> "Flux reading steady?" Mira asked.
> "Not steady," Arin said, scanning the meter. "Predictable."
> "That's… worse."
The wind moved in loops. It touched and returned, the same breeze twice.
Behind them, Alina adjusted the resonance reader strapped to her arm. "The pattern's identical to last night," she said. "Two beats, pause, one."
> "Until it wasn't," Arin murmured.
> "Meaning?"
> "Wait for it."
The silence came heavy and absolute. Then the second pulse hit — one beat, pause, two.
Everyone froze.
Mira's voice was low. "It reversed."
> "Told you," Arin said quietly.
> "That's not possible."
> "Neither is conversation," he replied, "but it's trying."
A ripple of static rolled through the air, brushing their skin like invisible ash. The resonance reader flickered, lines rewriting themselves faster than Alina could process.
> "Commander," she called out. "It's responding to proximity!"
> "Pull the team back—slowly," Mira ordered.
But the flux didn't lash out; it listened. The ground vibrated, soft as breath.
Then, clear as a whisper through stone, came a word.
Not heard — felt.
> "Who."
The syllable crawled through their bones, low and questioning.
No one moved.
> "Was that—?" Alina started.
> "Not you," Arin said. "Not me."
Mira's pulse steadied through will alone. "Record it."
> "It's not repeating," Arin said.
> "Then make it."
He stepped forward a single pace. The reader spiked.
He spoke, calm but certain. "Who are you?"
The valley answered.
> "Who… remembers."
It wasn't echo; it was mimicry. The same tone. The same breath between syllables.
> "It's copying us," Mira said.
> "No," Arin whispered. "It's understanding."
The resonance flared—bright, golden-white—and in that instant, everyone's instruments shut down. The silence that followed was dense enough to bend light.
Nalen's voice cracked over the communicator from the ridge:
> "Commander, status?"
> "We're fine," Mira said, though she wasn't sure. "We're pulling out. The flux just spoke."
> "Spoke?"
> "You heard me."
The line went dead.
---
They made it halfway up the slope before the air began to hum again.
Mira stopped, eyes closing.
> "Commander?" Alina asked.
> "It's repeating something," she said. "Listen."
The wind carried the sound, faint but clear now — not the ridge, not the instruments, but the pattern of a heartbeat matching human rhythm.
And beneath it, the same word again, dragged across the air like a memory resurfacing:
> "Who remembers."
Arin turned slowly toward her. "It's asking a question."
> "Then answer it."
> "You're the scientist."
> "You're the soldier."
> "And it's neither."
Mira stared at him. "What would you say?"
> "That I remember," he said. "Even when I shouldn't."
The pulse steadied—two beats, pause, one—then faded, as if satisfied.
The wind went still. Birds started again.
Mira exhaled slowly. "It stopped."
> "No," Arin said. "It listened."
They reached the ridge at dusk. The campfires burned like tiny echoes of stars.
Alina walked ahead to report. Nalen stood waiting, jaw set tight.
> "I heard part of it," he said. "Sounded like speech."
> "It was," Mira said.
> "And?"
> "And it knew what it was asking."
Nalen's gaze shifted to Arin. "You did something out there."
> "Just answered."
> "That simple?"
> "Nothing about it was simple."
Nalen studied him a moment longer, then turned away. "Get cleaned up. We'll debrief at dawn."
When he left, Mira looked at Arin again. "You think it'll talk again?"
> "If it meant to be heard once, it'll try twice."
> "You sound certain."
> "No," he said, staring at the valley. "Just familiar."
---
Later that night, Mira stood by her desk, listening to the instruments ticking faintly. The rhythm hadn't returned.
She picked up her pen to log the event. The ink refused to flow, the nib scratching dry.
Then the notebook flipped open on its own, pages whispering, until it stopped on the margin where she'd written his phrase:
> something's trying to fix its own rhythm.
Beneath it, in handwriting that wasn't hers, a new line appeared — letter by letter, burned faintly into the page.
> and it remembers who taught it.
Mira froze.
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying a voice too soft for the others to hear —
> "Arin."
The instruments pulsed once.
And the valley answered.
Dawn didn't rise that morning.
It hesitated—hung low over the valley like a thought that didn't want to be spoken.
The air was too still. Even the birds seemed to wait for permission.
Inside the command tent, chaos had the politeness of discipline. Instruments ticked, papers rustled, voices kept low as if volume might provoke the anomaly back to life.
> "Every recorder played it," Alina said. "Every single one. Same word. Same tone."
> "You verified the data?" Mira asked.
> "Three times."
> "Any chance it's human interference?"
> "Unless someone whispered 'Arin' into twenty-seven flux monitors simultaneously? No."
Mira's jaw tightened. She hadn't slept. The skin beneath her eyes carried the same quiet fatigue as the instruments.
She turned to the man standing at the center of the tent — the one name every device had chosen.
> "Congratulations, Solis," she said, flat but steady. "You're officially famous among anomalies."
> "Not the kind of recognition I was hoping for."
> "What were you hoping for?"
> "Silence."
> "Then you picked the wrong ridge."
A flicker of something like humor passed between them, gone as quickly as it came.
> "When did you first hear it say your name?" she asked.
> "I didn't."
> "You're sure?"
> "I'd remember that."
Mira studied him, searching for any tremor in his voice. "It addressed you specifically. That's not coincidence."
> "Maybe it's calling everyone Arin."
> "It's not that generous."
Alina stepped in, holding a chart. "Commander, look. The resonance frequency that spelled his name—it's human-range amplitude. It's learning speech through mimicry."
> "So it's using our language?" Mira asked.
> "No," Alina said softly. "It's using his."
That earned silence.
Arin looked between them. "I don't have a language."
> "You do," Mira said quietly. "It's whatever the ridge keeps imitating."
He didn't respond. He couldn't. Something in the tent felt smaller now—like the air had folded around them.
---
Outside, the sky refused color. The light came thin and hesitant through the mist.
Nalen was already pacing near the outer fence, expression carved from stone.
> "She told me," he said as Arin approached.
> "Told you what?"
> "That the ridge called your name."
> "She exaggerates."
> "Mira doesn't exaggerate. She documents."
Nalen stopped pacing, eyes sharp. "You want to tell me why something older than the world knows who you are?"
> "Maybe it doesn't."
> "Then why say it?"
> "Because I was standing there."
> "That's not an answer."
Arin's voice dropped. "No. It's not."
They stared at each other long enough for the silence to grow teeth.
Then Nalen exhaled, rubbed his temples, and said quietly, "If it says your name again, we move you out of field assignments. That's an order."
> "You think distance matters?"
> "I think I still give orders here."
Arin didn't argue. He nodded once, but the unease in his shoulders betrayed him.
---
Back in the tent, Mira replayed the recordings again.
The same word, same tone.
But she noticed something no one else did — after every "Arin," there was a delay.
A breath-length gap.
A pause.
And then a second sound, almost too faint to register.
A heartbeat.
She enhanced the audio.
It wasn't static. It was rhythm.
Two beats. Pause. One.
Mira froze. "No," she whispered. "It can't be syncing."
> "Syncing to what?" Alina asked.
> "Him."
---
Later that day, Mira found Arin sitting alone near the ridge line, hands on the soil like he was listening for something that wasn't sound.
> "You're not supposed to be here," she said.
> "Neither are you."
> "I'm the commander."
> "And I'm the anomaly, apparently."
She crossed her arms. "They want to isolate you."
> "That'll make it louder."
> "Explain."
> "The ridge. The voice. Whatever it is—it's following attention. The more they fear it, the clearer it gets."
> "That's not science."
> "No," he said quietly. "That's memory."
The wind rose, cold and soft. Mira knelt beside him, eyeing the soil. "You think it's aware?"
> "I think it's awake."
> "And it remembers you?"
> "It shouldn't."
> "But it does."
He didn't answer.
Somewhere far below, the ground gave a low, steady hum. The pattern began again — two beats, pause, one — but this time, another layer followed, quieter, as if trying not to be heard.
Three short pulses. Pause. Two.
Mira's breath caught. "That's… different."
> "Not different," Arin said, eyes narrowing. "It's answering itself."
> "Then what's it saying?"
> "That it's not done yet."
The sound faded, leaving only wind.
Mira looked at him — really looked — and saw the unease in his stillness, the way people hold their breath when they already know the ending.
> "Whatever this is," she said, "you're connected to it."
> "Then maybe it's asking me to remember what it can't."
She studied him for a moment longer, then said softly, "Be careful, Arin. If it remembers you, the world will too—and not kindly."
> "The world already forgot," he said. "That's why it's breaking."
---
That night, the camp fell quiet again.
Mira returned to her tent, intending to write her report.
Instead, she found the notebook open where she'd left it.
The last line still glowed faintly:
> and it remembers who taught it.
Underneath, fresh letters began to burn into the paper as she watched:
> He remembers too.
She looked up. The lantern dimmed, the air turned heavy.
Outside, Arin stood at the edge of the ridge, the wind pulling at his coat. His watch glowed faintly in his palm — a soft gold heartbeat, pulsing the same rhythm as the valley.
Two beats. Pause. One.
Then, faint and distant, carried by the wind—
> "Arin."
He didn't flinch this time.
He whispered back, barely audible:
> "I'm listening."
And the ridge replied—soft, almost tender—
> "Then remember."
The ground shuddered once.
Every flame in camp flickered and went still.
Morning came without movement.
The ridge didn't hum. The wind didn't shift. Even the canvas tents seemed to hold their breath.
The camp felt wrong in a way silence rarely manages—too complete, as if the world had forgotten how to start itself again.
Arin was already awake. He hadn't slept since the whisper.
He watched the sky brighten without changing, the same pale gold frozen above the trees.
The watch in his hand was still ticking, but each sound felt slower, hesitant—like time itself was unsure of permission.
Alina approached with a field log pressed to her chest.
> "You feel it too?"
> "Feels like everything's waiting for something," Arin said.
> "For what?"
He looked at her and almost smiled. "That's the problem. Even it doesn't know."
Before she could answer, Mira's voice cut through the quiet from across camp:
> "Everyone to the central tent. Now."
---
Inside, tension replaced air.
The flux instruments, once noisy with data, displayed nothing—blank screens, dead lines.
> "Everything stopped," Nalen said, rubbing his jaw. "Every reading, every clock."
> "Not every clock," Mira replied. "His is still ticking."
All eyes turned to Arin.
> "Maybe it's just broken," he said.
> "Then it's the only broken thing still working," Mira shot back.
> "Commander," Alina said, "if time has frozen, shouldn't we—"
> "Don't say frozen," Mira interrupted. "That implies we understand it. We don't."
> "Then what do we call this?"
Mira hesitated. "A memory that refuses to move forward."
Nalen paced. "Can we restart it?"
> "It's not a machine," Mira said.
> "Then who can?"
Her eyes drifted to Arin. "Maybe the one it's listening to."
He exhaled slowly. "You want me to talk to time?"
> "Call it whatever helps you cooperate."
> "You think this is my fault?"
> "I think you're the only variable that changed before it stopped."
> "I didn't do anything."
> "Maybe that's the problem."
Their eyes locked. The camp held its silence like a breath waiting for an argument to turn into revelation.
Finally, Arin said quietly, "If it stopped for me, it can start for me."
> "You're assuming it wants to."
> "Everything wants to continue," he said. "Even time."
---
They walked back to the ridge together. No escort, no instruments—just windless air and the faint, dry rustle of leaves that refused to move.
The valley looked asleep. The soil shimmered faintly, like frost pretending to breathe.
> "So what now?" Mira asked.
> "We listen."
> "And if it doesn't answer?"
> "Then we remind it why it started."
He knelt, pressing his palm to the ground. The watch in his other hand ticked once, twice—then stopped.
> "Arin," Mira said, voice lower now. "If you—"
> "Shh."
He closed his eyes. The silence deepened until it was almost shape.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then, faintly—so faintly Mira thought she imagined it—the soil under Arin's hand warmed.
> two beats, pause, one.
The rhythm returned—hesitant, fragile, like a creature remembering its own name.
> "It's responding," she whispered.
> "No," Arin said. "It's remembering."
He stood slowly. The air shimmered around them, light bending in quiet spirals.
The world exhaled. A bird cried once, somewhere distant.
And the clocks in camp began to tick again.
---
Back at the tents, the instruments came alive all at once—lights blinking, papers flaring with fresh readings.
The hum of life returned so suddenly that everyone flinched.
Nalen burst in through the flap.
> "It's back!"
> "So are you," Mira said, watching Arin.
He looked distant, somewhere between relief and regret.
> "What did you do?" she asked.
> "Nothing," he said. "I just remembered."
> "Remembered what?"
> "That it's not supposed to forget."
Mira frowned. "You're speaking in riddles again."
> "That's all this place understands."
She folded her arms. "So time listens to you now?"
> "No," Arin said softly. "It's waiting for me."
> "For what?"
He looked at the ridge, gold light pooling across the stones like the dawn had finally remembered its job.
> "For me to finish what I started."
---
Later that evening, after the reports were filed and the camp resumed its pretense of normal, Mira stood outside her tent, watching Arin from a distance.
He sat by the fire alone, the watch ticking faintly in his palm.
Alina joined her quietly.
> "You believe him?"
> "I don't believe anything yet," Mira said. "Belief requires boundaries. This doesn't have any."
> "You think he's dangerous?"
Mira didn't answer right away.
> "If he is," she said finally, "it's because the world made him that way."
The fire crackled once. The sound echoed longer than it should have.
Inside her tent, the notebook flipped open again on its own.
The last line had changed.
> He remembers too.
He always did.
Mira stared at it, jaw set, then closed the book and blew out the lantern.
The ridge hummed once in the dark — quiet, polite, as if thanking them for listening.
And for the first time since dawn, the world felt like it had started breathing again.
Midnight had edges that night.
The stars looked closer, sharper, like they'd drifted just enough to listen.
Arin sat awake by the fire, the camp long asleep around him.
The watch in his hand ticked quietly—too quietly.
He noticed it first as a feeling: the tick didn't move forward.
It hesitated, then reversed.
> "No," he whispered. "Not again."
The hands on the dial crept backward a single minute, then stopped.
A faint gold glow pulsed once, steady as breath.
Alina's tent flap rustled. "You still awake?"
> "Apparently," Arin said, eyes still on the watch.
> "You look like you're waiting for judgment."
> "Maybe I am."
She stepped closer, squinting at the faint light in his palm. "What's it doing?"
> "Remembering."
> "You and Mira keep using that word like it's a person."
> "Maybe that's what people are," he murmured. "Things time built to hold its memories."
Before she could respond, a sound drifted across the camp — low, rhythmic, like a heartbeat inside the ground.
Two beats. Pause. One.
Then, a second rhythm layered beneath it, slower and deeper.
> "That's new," Alina said.
> "That's not the ridge," Arin whispered. "That's someone else."
---
Mira woke at the same moment, the pulse echoing through her tent poles.
Her notebook had opened again, pages fluttering in a wind that wasn't there.
The ink glowed faintly, forming new words between the margins.
> Not all memories belong to time.
Some belong to those who got left behind.
She pushed out of the tent barefoot, scanning the camp.
Arin stood by the fire, light glinting on his watch.
> "It's ticking backward," she said.
> "You can see that?"
> "I can feel it," she said. "Everything in me feels reversed."
> "That makes two of us."
> "How far?"
> "A minute. Maybe less. But it's not time we lost—it's memory."
> "Explain."
He turned the watch in his hand. "When it reversed, I remembered something I shouldn't. A room that doesn't exist yet. You were there, older, angry—saying something about collapse."
> "That's not possible."
> "That's what makes it familiar."
Mira stared at him, her face pale in the firelight. "You're describing the nightmare I've had for years."
> "Then it's not a nightmare," he said softly. "It's a message traveling backward."
> "From what?"
> "From whatever we become."
---
The fire hissed, sparks spinning like tiny clocks thrown into the air.
Alina spoke, voice trembling slightly. "Commander, readings just surged again. Flux resonance—off the charts."
Mira tore her gaze from Arin. "Location?"
> "Everywhere," Alina said. "It's not localized anymore. The entire valley's resonating."
> "That's not possible—"
> "It is now," Arin interrupted. "It's synchronizing with us."
The ground shuddered once, gentle but certain.
Lanterns swung.
All across the camp, sleeping soldiers woke in confusion.
> "Flux wave incoming!" someone shouted.
Mira grabbed Arin's arm. "What did you do?"
> "Nothing!"
> "Then why is it responding to you?"
> "Because it thinks I'm the reason it exists!"
The ridge exploded in light—no heat, no sound, just brilliance that poured like water over everything.
For a single breath, Mira saw the valley not as earth but as memory:
frozen shapes, echoes of people she didn't know yet, a battlefield where time had fractured once before.
Then the light folded back into itself and vanished.
Silence.
No wind.
No motion.
Just the faint ticking of the watch, now running forward again.
---
When her sight steadied, Mira saw that everyone else in camp stood frozen—not unconscious, but paused.
Only she and Arin moved.
> "They're not breathing," she whispered.
> "They are," he said. "Just not in this moment."
> "What does that mean?"
> "It means time split to make room for us to see something."
> "See what?"
He looked toward the ridge.
The light was gone, but carved into the soil were words written in gold ash.
Mira approached slowly, reading aloud.
> "The woman the future forgot."
Her throat closed. "That's—"
> "You," Arin said quietly.
> "No one's ever called me that."
> "Not yet."
She turned to him. "What does it mean?"
> "It means time remembered you before you existed."
> "And you?"
He stared at the words, eyes hollow with recognition. "I think it's reminding me why I came here."
The world began to move again—the fire cracking, wind resuming, voices shouting in confusion.
No one else saw the words fade back into the soil.
Only Mira.
And the look on Arin's face told her he didn't need to.
---
Later, when the camp had settled into uneasy silence, Mira sat by her desk and opened her notebook again.
The glow was gone. Only faint scorch marks remained where the last words had burned through.
But when she turned the page, she found a single new line—written in her own handwriting, though she hadn't touched the pen:
> He remembers because he was meant to.
Outside, Arin stood under a colorless sky, watch silent in his hand.
He whispered to it, not expecting an answer.
> "What did you make me remember?"
The tick returned, soft, almost kind.
> "Everything," it seemed to say.
The fire flared once and died.
The night reset itself like a record skipping to the start of a song.
And far away, in the unseen valley where time had cracked, a second heartbeat began to echo—
one beat, pause, two—
the same rhythm that once belonged to Mira's dream.
---