The time rifts showed our doom.
Haven becoming Luna.
Astro killing Haven.
Predetermined.
Inevitable.
Inescapable.
I stared at the hundreds of futures.
All converging.
All showing same end.
All proving Luna right.
The rifts hummed with synchronized frequency, creating a chorus of possibility that made the air vibrate. Each window pulsed with its own temporal signature—some fast and frantic, others slow and dragging, all of them discordant. The light from so many futures cast prismatic shadows, turning everything into overlapping ghosts of what might be.
Then a different rift opened.
Not showing future.
Showing past.
My past.
This rift felt different—warmer somehow, softer at the edges. The light bleeding through was golden rather than the cold silver-blue of the future windows. It smelled of summer grass and pack den, of childhood and before-everything-broke. The temperature differential was gentle, like stepping from shade into sunlight.
The rift widened.
