Elara woke to rain.
It tapped softly against the window, the sound threading through her half-dream. For a moment, she didn't know where she was—her mind still drifting in that strange space between sleep and waking, where the world felt thin and see-through.
The dream had been the same again. The man standing by the window, his eyes quiet and sad. He didn't speak, but she felt he wanted to. Like a song trapped behind glass.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her heartbeat. "Get a grip, Elara," she muttered. "You're talking to ghosts now."
But part of her—the part that painted things she'd never seen—whispered that maybe ghosts talked back.
She glanced at the newest canvas. It wasn't finished, but the shape was clear: a silhouette in the rain. Broad shoulders. A face she didn't recognize, but somehow felt she'd always known.
In the lab, Aiden was losing hours again.
He sat surrounded by empty cups and data pads, the hum of the Temporal Core filling the silence. Kellen stood behind him, arms crossed, expression caught between concern and anger.
"You've been running unauthorized projections for six nights," Kellen said flatly. "Do you want to end up like Lenz?"
Aiden didn't look away from the monitors. "Lenz was reckless. I'm careful."
Kellen laughed, but it wasn't amused. "You think obsession is careful? You're pushing your brain through decades of echo density. You're not watching anymore, Aiden—you're bleeding into it."
Aiden's jaw tightened. "She sees me."
Kellen's face softened, just slightly. "That's not her, Aiden. It's a recording of past quantum states. You're seeing noise—psychological projection."
"She said, I'll remember you next time."
"That's your guilt talking."
But Aiden shook his head. "The data doesn't lie. There's a recursive imprint forming in her timeline—anomalies that correspond with my sessions. The past shouldn't change, but it is."
Kellen leaned closer. "You know what happens if that feedback loop closes. Time isn't static—it's elastic. You pull hard enough, it'll snap."
Aiden turned to him, voice low. "Then let it."
Kellen stared at him a long time, then whispered, "You're not trying to study her anymore. You're trying to reach her."
Aiden didn't answer.
That night, the system's safety protocols rejected his credentials.He bypassed them in under ten minutes.
He wasn't going to stop. Not now.
The jump began the same way—light collapsing, air stretching thin, the familiar hum turning into silence.
Then: her apartment.
The rain was still falling.
Elara was standing near the window, staring out, as if waiting for something she couldn't name.
When Aiden appeared in the echo field, the machine hesitated—an almost imperceptible lag. The past shimmered, faintly wrong, like a video skipping a frame.
He reached out, heart pounding.
She turned.
This time, there was no hesitation. Her eyes locked onto his.
And though he knew it was impossible, she spoke—softly, clearly, as if she were standing right beside him.
"I see you."
Aiden's entire body froze.
Her lips moved again, trembling. "Who are you?"
He tried to speak. The words came out as static, distortion. The world rippled around them.
Elara flinched, clutching her head. "What's happening?"
The system's alarms blared in Aiden's earpiece.Temporal breach detected. Field integrity compromised.
He could feel the past pushing back, gravity folding in on itself. He tried to pull away, to shut the link—but Elara stepped forward.
"Please," she said, reaching out, her hand brushing the air.
Her fingers passed through his chest—and for one impossible second, he felt warmth.
Then the light tore apart.
Aiden woke up on the floor of the lab. The machines were dead. The monitors blank.
He coughed, every muscle shaking, and looked around.
The room was the same. Almost.
Except on the far wall, where a single streak of blue paint glistened—fresh, wet, impossible.