Morning arrived quietly, as if the city itself were careful not to wake them too abruptly.
Sunlight slipped through the narrow gap between the curtains, drawing a pale line across the wall and slowly climbing higher. Outside, Asterfall was already in motion—distant transit hums, the low murmur of people beginning their routines—but inside the apartment, time felt slower. Softer.
Lena woke first.
She lay still for a moment, listening to Ethan's breathing beside her. He slept on his back, one arm flung awkwardly over the edge of the bed, brow faintly furrowed even in rest. As if his mind refused to stop working, even when the world allowed him peace.
She smiled to herself.
Carefully, she shifted and reached for her tablet on the bedside table. A notification blinked softly—an automated reminder for her morning lecture. She dismissed it and glanced back at Ethan.
"You're going to miss breakfast," she whispered, mostly to herself.
He didn't stir.
She slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen, starting the kettle. The apartment was small but warm, filled with traces of shared life—two toothbrushes in the bathroom, mismatched mugs, a stack of books that belonged equally to both of them, though they read them for very different reasons.
Where Lena read to feel, Ethan read to understand.
She set bread into the toaster and leaned against the counter, her thoughts drifting back to the strange thing Ethan had mentioned the night before.
"You ever feel like the world pauses for a second?" he had asked casually, as if talking about the weather.
She had laughed it off at the time. Everyone felt strange things sometimes.
Still… the way he had looked afterward—distant, unsettled—lingered in her mind.
The kettle clicked off.
As she poured the water, footsteps sounded behind her.
"Smells like you're trying to bribe me awake," Ethan said, voice rough with sleep.
She turned, smiling. "Is it working?"
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. "Temporarily."
They stood like that for a moment, comfortable in the quiet. For Ethan, these moments were rare islands of stillness in an otherwise restless sea.
"You didn't dream again," Lena said.
He stiffened slightly. "How do you know?"
"You always dream when you frown like that."
He considered denying it, then sighed. "It wasn't really a dream. More like… my brain rearranging unfinished thoughts."
She twisted in his arms to face him. "Normal people call those dreams."
"Normal people are inaccurate," he said.
She laughed and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, "you stay."
"Someone has to make sure you remember to eat."
They ate together, sitting cross-legged on the couch. News scrolled silently across the wall display—updates about infrastructure upgrades, climate stabilization projects, political summits that promised more than they ever delivered.
Lena muted it.
"Too loud," she said.
Ethan nodded. He hadn't been paying attention anyway.
"So," she said, breaking off a piece of toast, "are you going to tell me what you were really thinking about last night?"
He glanced at her. "You're assuming I wasn't just tired."
"I've known you for four years," she replied. "You don't get tired like that."
He hesitated.
This was the part of himself he struggled to share—the part that lived in abstract spaces, where thoughts didn't translate cleanly into words.
"I had a… sensation," he said slowly. "Like something stuttered."
"Stuttered?"
"Reality," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "That's not ominous at all."
He gave a small smile. "I know how it sounds."
"Ethan," she said gently, "your work messes with your perception. You know that."
"I do," he agreed. "That's why it bothered me."
She reached for his hand. "Nothing happened."
He wanted to believe that.
"I know," he said.
But even as he said it, his mind replayed the moment—the dulling of sound, the pressure behind his eyes. It hadn't felt like imagination.
It had felt like recognition.
At the research facility, Ethan found himself distracted.
Equations that normally unfolded effortlessly resisted him. His simulations ran clean, elegant, predictable—too predictable.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
Time models assumed consistency. Continuity. A universe that behaved itself.
But what if time wasn't as stable as everyone believed?
What if small disturbances occurred constantly—too small to notice, too brief to measure?
He dismissed the thought.
Speculation without data was pointless.
Still, he opened a new workspace and began sketching an idea he had avoided for years.
Temporal Elasticity Hypothesis
—Time resists change, but not infinitely.
—Stress accumulates.
—Release occurs as anomalies.
He paused.
This was dangerous territory—not because it violated known physics, but because it didn't.
It fit too well.
That evening, Lena waited for him outside the facility.
"You're late," she said, but there was no real complaint in her voice.
"I know," he said. "I lost track."
She studied his face. "You're doing it again."
"I'm fine."
She didn't argue. Instead, she took his hand and pulled him toward the transit platform.
"Come on," she said. "We're not going home."
He frowned. "Then where—"
"You'll see."
They ended up by the river.
Asterfall's river wasn't natural—not anymore. Its banks were reinforced, its flow regulated, its ecosystem carefully managed. And yet, standing beside it, watching the water move steadily forward, it still felt ancient.
They sat on the steps near the edge, legs dangling close to the surface.
"I come here when I want to remember something," Lena said.
"Remember what?"
"That not everything needs to be fixed," she said.
Ethan watched the water. "Rivers flood. Erode. Destroy."
"Yes," she said. "And they also sustain life."
He was quiet.
She glanced at him. "What do you think time is like?"
He blinked, surprised. "Time?"
"Humor me."
He thought for a moment. "A system," he said. "One with directionality. Entropy increases. Information disperses."
She rolled her eyes. "Try again."
He sighed. "A river," he said finally.
She smiled. "See? You're not hopeless."
"The difference," he continued, "is that rivers can be redirected."
"And time can't?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know," he admitted.
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Maybe it shouldn't be."
The water below rippled as something passed beneath the surface.
Ethan felt a chill he couldn't explain.
Later that night, lying awake beside Lena, he stared at the ceiling.
Her breathing was slow, even.
He thought of rivers. Of branches. Of systems pushed just far enough to break.
And for the first time—not as a theory, not as a forbidden curiosity, but as a possibility—he wondered:
If time could be bent… should it be?
Outside, unseen and unnoticed, the city lights flickered once.
Just once.
Time flowed on.
For now.