Atlas jerked awake in the middle of the night, heart hammering. The dream still clung to him like damp clothes. In it, he had never met Elara. He worked the same dull logistics job back on pre-Reset Earth, ate the same takeout, paid the same bills.
Everything ran on schedule. Nothing broke. Nothing mattered. He had stared at his own reflection in that version of himself and felt nothing but a heavy, quiet emptiness.
He swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his face. The Zone was quiet outside. Too quiet after the caravan visit. He pulled on a shirt and stepped into the cool night air, heading toward the square where the Perspective Booth still stood from the traders' stop.
The booth looked the same at first glance—tall wooden box with a narrow door and faded symbols carved into the frame.
But something felt off. A faint shimmer hung around it, like heat haze on pavement. Atlas reached out and touched the wood. It buzzed under his fingers.
