“It’s a fold in time. A crease, one might say.”
“But, how will we get home, professor?”
“We are home.”
“I mean home to the right time.”
“There is never a right time until time ends and we become time-less.”
“But that’s death. I don’t want to die.”
“Where do you think you are now, Simon?”
The boy called Simon looked to the stars above and below, to the twisted moon and galaxial swirls, to the indigo haze and transparent people, and made a decision. “I don’t want to go home, professor. Not without everyone else, anyway.”
“Good boy. If only more people thought like you. We’ll stay a little longer, instead.”
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Acute angles and monochrome, my head spun with the reality of the situation: I was not where I should have been.
Where emerald forests and blue lagoons should have ranged before me, all stood in a noir decline.
The chronometer read 2015. The future heard my displaced screams.