The evening sun bled across the fields as Eliot dragged his aching body home. His calloused hands still smelled of upturned earth, his muscles burned from twelve hours of labor, and his stomach growled loud enough to startle crows from the nearby oaks. All he wanted was the hearty stew that should've been waiting in his bowl. But when he shoved open the cottage door, his wooden bowl sat empty. Again.
"Alya." His voice came out low and dangerous. His younger sister sat curled in the window seat, bathed in golden twilight. She didn't even have the decency to look guilty as she licked honey from her fingers. "Hmm?"
"Where's my dinner?" Alya blinked those wide, innocent eyes that fooled everyone but him. "How should I know?" Eliot's fist clenched at his side. The crumbs on her dress might as well have been a confession. "You ate it. Again."
"Prove it." She smirked, swinging her legs like this was some amusing game. That smirk had haunted him since childhood - always when she'd stolen his toys, his treats, his moments of peace. The wooden floor creaked under Eliot's weight as he stepped closer. "I worked that field from dawn till dusk. You didn't even did your chores today."
Alya examined her nails. "Maybe... a fox took it?" Something inside Eliot snapped. His hand shot out, gripping the windowsill beside her head hard enough to make the old wood groan. "Do I look like an idiot to you?"
For the first time, Alya's smile faltered. She opened her mouth, probably with another lie ready, but Eliot was done listening. He spun away, the door slamming behind him with a thunderous crack that shook dust from the rafters.
The evening air hit Eliot's face like a slap. He stormed down the dirt path, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust that glowed amber in the dying light. The familiar sights of his village - the baker's oven glowing red through its cracks, the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer. all blurred together in his fury.
Every muscle in his body ached, but the hunger gnawing at his stomach hurt worse. He'd worked that damned field since before dawn, his back screaming with each swing of the hoe, all for what? So his spoiled sister could steal the fruits of his labor with that infuriating smirk?
Eliot walked until his breathing slowed, until the red haze lifted from his vision. The path led him to the old oak at the field's edge, its gnarled branches twisted like the fingers of some ancient giant. He slumped against its trunk, the rough bark biting through his threadbare shirt. "Stupid girl." he muttered to the empty air. The first stars were just blinking awake above him. Somewhere in the distance, a nightjar began its eerie churring call.
Then the world... shifted.
A sudden vertigo made Eliot grab at the tree for support. The air grew thick, heavy, pressing against his skin like a physical weight. The nightjar's call cut off mid-note. The wind died. Even the leaves overhead froze in place, as if the entire world had taken a sudden, shuddering breath and held it. Eliot's pulse hammered in his throat. He pushed off from the tree, turning slowly. The village lights still glowed in the distance, but something was wrong. The smoke from chimneys hung motionless in perfect vertical lines. The mill's waterwheel stood frozen mid-turn.
And then he saw it.
Where his village should have been, there was... nothing. Just an empty field stretching into darkness, the outlines of buildings erased as if they'd never existed. The oak tree at his back was now the only landmark in a vast, featureless plain. "Wha..." Eliot's voice sounded unnaturally loud in the silence. His breath came in short, panicked bursts, fogging in air that had suddenly turned winter-cold.
A dry chuckle rasped through the stillness.
Eliot whirled to find an old man standing where no one had been a heartbeat before. His tattered cloak seemed to drink in the fading light, and his face... Eliot couldn't quite focus on his face. It kept slipping from his memory even as he stared. "You've finally awakened," the old man said, his voice like dead leaves scraping across stone. "Took you long enough."
Eliot's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he managed, "Who are you? What's happening?" The figure raised a gnarled hand, and Eliot instinctively flinched back. "The dream is ending, boy. And you..." A crooked finger pointed at Eliot's chest. "You're the only one who noticed."
A gust of wind howled suddenly, carrying with it the scent of burning wood and something darker, something metallic. Eliot squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging dust and opened them to the creak of a door, the warmth of firelight, the smell of stew. Alya's voice, bright with false innocence: "Hmm?"
Eliot staggered, catching himself on the doorframe. His heart pounded so violently he feared it might burst from his chest. He was back. Back in the moment before he'd stormed out. Back before... Whatever that had been.
Alya's smirk faltered as she took in his pale face, his trembling hands. "Eliot? You look like you've seen a ghost." Maybe he had. Because as Eliot stared at his sister, at the honey glistening on her fingers, at the empty bowl that had started it all, one terrible thought echoed through his mind:
This had happened before.