The phone buzzed insistently, dragging him from a fitful sleep. He fumbled for it, squinting at the too-bright screen. The caller ID read "Claire," and Logan's stomach did a little flip. His sister rarely called, and when she did, it was seldom good news.

"Hello?" he answered, voice rough with sleep.

"Logan?" Claire's voice was tight, controlled in a way that set off alarm bells in Logan's head. "It's Mom. She's... she's not doing well. The doctors say we should come quickly."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Logan sat up, suddenly wide awake. "What happened? I thought she was stable."

"She was, but..." Claire's voice cracked. "There was a complication. They're not sure how long she has."

Logan was already moving, throwing clothes into a duffel bag with one hand. "I'm on my way. Have you called Dad?"

"Yeah, he's flying in from Chicago. Logan, I..." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was small, vulnerable in a way he hadn't heard since they were kids. "I'm scared."

"Me too, sis," Logan admitted, his throat tight. "But we'll get through this. Together. I'll be there as soon as I can."

After hanging up, Logan called the station, explaining the situation. His captain was understanding, immediately approving emergency leave. With that sorted, Logan grabbed his keys and headed for the door, Roscoe trotting after him.

"Come on, buddy," Logan said, his voice thick with emotion. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."

The drive to his hometown was a blur of highways and gas station coffee. Logan's mind raced, torn between worry for his mother and memories of darker times. Roscoe slept in the passenger seat, occasionally whimpering in his dreams.

As the miles rolled by, Logan's thoughts drifted to his struggles with addiction. He remembered the disappointment in his mother's eyes when she'd found him passed out on the bathroom floor, surrounded by empty pill bottles. The way her voice had trembled when she told him he needed help.

"I'm not going to lose you to this, Logan," she'd said, her hand gripping his so tightly it hurt. "You're stronger than you know. You can beat this."

He hadn't believed her then. But she'd believed in him, even when he couldn't believe in himself. Through the withdrawals, the relapses, the long nights when the cravings felt like they would tear him apart – she'd been there. A constant, unwavering presence.

Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter, blinking back tears. He'd been clean for three years now, thanks in no small part to her support. And now... now he might not get the chance to thank her properly.

They arrived at the hospital just as the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the parking lot. Logan took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. "Stay here, Roscoe," he said, giving the dog a final pat. "I'll be back soon."

The hospital corridors were a maze of antiseptic smells and beeping machines. Logan found his way to the ICU, his steps growing heavier with each floor. He rounded a corner and there was Claire, pacing in front of a closed door.

"Logan!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "Thank God you're here."

He hugged her tight, feeling the tremors running through her body. "How is she?" he asked softly.

Claire pulled back, wiping at her eyes. "Not good. She's... she's asking for you."

Logan nodded, swallowing hard. "Is Dad here?"

"He just went to get coffee. He should be back any minute."

Taking a deep breath, Logan pushed open the door to his mother's room. The sight that greeted him made his heart clench. His mother, once so vibrant and full of life, looked small and frail in the hospital bed. Tubes and wires connected her to various machines, their steady beeping a grim countdown.

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"Mom?" he said softly, approaching the bed.

Her eyes fluttered open, focusing on him with effort. "Logan," she breathed, a weak smile curving her lips. "My boy. You came."

"Of course I came," he said, taking her hand. It felt so fragile in his, like a bird's wing. "I'm here, Mom. I'm right here."

She squeezed his hand with what little strength she had left. "I'm so proud of you, Logan. So proud of the man you've become."

Logan felt tears stinging his eyes. "Mom, I..."

"Shh," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know. You don't have to say anything. Just... just stay with me for a while."

The next few hours passed in a blur of hushed conversations, coffee that grew cold before it could be drunk, and the constant, maddening beep of hospital machines. Logan's mother drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid, sometimes lost in fevered ramblings.

It was just past midnight when the end came. Logan, Claire, and their father stood around the bed, holding onto each other as they said their final goodbyes. In her last moments, Logan's mother opened her eyes, fixing him with a gaze that seemed to see right through him.

"Remember, Logan," she whispered. "You're stronger than you know. Keep moving forward, no matter what."

And then she was gone, slipping away with a final, soft exhale. The room fell silent, the absence of the steady beeping somehow louder than any noise.

Logan felt numb, disconnected from his body. He went through the motions of comforting Claire, of shaking hands with the doctors, of making necessary phone calls. But inside, he felt hollow, as if a vital part of him had been torn away.

As dawn broke over the hospital parking lot, Logan sat in his car, Roscoe's head resting on his lap. He stroked the dog's fur absently, staring at nothing.

"What do we do now, buddy?" he asked softly.

Roscoe looked up at him, and Logan could have sworn he saw understanding in those canine eyes. The dog let out a soft "woof," then turned his head to stare pointedly at the steering wheel.

Logan couldn't help but laugh, even as tears stung his eyes. "Yeah, you're right. We've got to keep moving forward."

He started the car, his mother's last words echoing in his mind. As they pulled out of the hospital parking lot, Logan made a sudden decision. He wasn't ready to go home yet, to face the emptiness of his apartment. Instead, he found himself driving towards Sarah's place.

His fellow EMT and friend had been out sick for days now, not responding to texts or calls. Checking on her would give him something to focus on, a distraction from the grief threatening to overwhelm him.

They pulled up to Sarah's building, an old converted warehouse with exposed brick and huge windows. Logan had always teased her about her "hipster pad," but now the looming structure filled him with an inexplicable sense of dread.

"Come on, Roscoe," Logan said, grabbing the dog's leash. "Let's see if Sarah's home."

The elevator was out of order – again – so Logan took the stairs, Roscoe trotting beside him. They reached Sarah's door, and Logan knocked loudly.

No answer.

"Sarah?" he called, knocking again. "It's Logan. Are you okay?"

Still nothing. Logan fished out the spare key Sarah had given him "for emergencies." If this didn't qualify, he didn't know what did.

The door swung open, and Logan stepped into chaos.

Sarah's usually immaculate apartment looked like it had been hit by a temporal tornado. Clocks of all shapes and sizes covered every surface, their hands spinning wildly in different directions. Some ticked forward, others backward, while still others seemed to have given up on linear time altogether, their hands tracing figure-eights and spirals.

"What the hell?" Logan breathed, taking in the scene.

It wasn't just the clocks. Everything in the apartment seemed to be in a state of temporal flux. A half-eaten apple on the coffee table cycled rapidly between fresh and rotten. The TV flicked between channels at dizzying speed, decades of programming blurring together.

Logan pulled out his phone, snapping pictures of the bizarre scene. He wasn't sure why, but some instinct told him he might need proof later. That this wasn't just grief-induced hallucination or sleep deprivation.

Roscoe growled softly, hackles raised as he stared at something on the kitchen counter. Logan followed the dog's gaze and felt his breath catch in his throat.

There, amid the chaos, was a single muffin with a note beside it. The note, written in what looked disturbingly like red icing, read:

"TIME'S UP. SHE'S WAITING IN KRONOS."

Logan stared at the note, a cold feeling settling in his gut. He'd seen that word before – Kronos. In his dreams, in the weird newspaper articles that kept appearing and disappearing. What did it mean? And what did it have to do with Sarah?

He snapped a picture of the note and the muffin, then tucked the note into his pocket. Part of him knew he should call the police, report Sarah missing. But what would he say? That his friend had been kidnapped by time itself?

A soft whine brought him back to the present. Roscoe was looking up at him, ears flat against his head, tail tucked between his legs. The dog looked as freaked out as Logan felt.

"Yeah, buddy," Logan sighed, reaching down to scratch behind Roscoe's ears. "I don't like this either. But we can't just leave Sarah... wherever she is."

They left the apartment, Logan locking the door behind them. As they walked back to the car, Logan's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Grief for his mother warred with concern for Sarah and confusion over the bizarre scene they'd just witnessed.

As they drove away, neither Logan nor Roscoe noticed the shimmer in the air behind them. For just a moment, a blue door flickered into existence in the alley beside Sarah's building, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.