I woke up to the hum of fluorescent lights and the sharp smell of antiseptic. The world around me seemed sharper, brighter, almost too real. My head throbbed as memories of my last jump flooded back. I had been trying to fix something — what, exactly, I couldn’t quite recall. The lines between past and present had started to blur, like a half-finished painting smeared by careless hands.
The device was still clutched in my hand, its surface warm against my skin. I stared at it, my mind racing. How many jumps had I made now? Ten? Twenty? Each one felt like a step deeper into quicksand, the ground beneath me unstable and shifting.
The door creaked open, and a nurse stepped in, her smile strained and unfamiliar. “Good morning, Mr. Patel. How are you feeling?”
Patel. My stomach sank. That wasn’t my last name. Not in the timeline I remembered. My name was Rohan Gupta. The realization hit me like a freight train. Somewhere along the way, I had altered something fundamental, something that had rewritten the very fabric of my existence.
“Where am I?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“You’re at St. Joseph’s Medical Center,” she said, adjusting the IV drip attached to my arm. “You had a bit of an episode. Do you remember what happened?”
I shook my head, the lie coming easily. “No, I don’t.”
“That’s okay,” she said, her tone soothing. “The doctor will be in shortly to check on you.”
As soon as she left the room, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to pull me back down. I had to figure out what had changed. The device felt heavier than ever, its weight a reminder of the responsibility I had so carelessly abused.
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Walking through the hospital halls, I noticed the subtle differences. The colors of the walls were different, a shade lighter than I remembered. The staff uniforms were unfamiliar, and the layout of the building felt... wrong. It was as if I were navigating a dream that only half resembled reality.
I found a quiet corner and pulled out my phone. The lock screen displayed today’s date: June 12, 2023. That was right. But as I scrolled through my contacts, my heart sank. Names I didn’t recognize filled the list. Friends and family members were missing, replaced by strangers.
Panic set in. I dialed the one number I knew by heart — my mother’s. The line rang twice before a woman answered. “Hello?”
Her voice was familiar, yet distant, like hearing a song you haven’t listened to in years.
“Mom?” I said, my voice trembling.
There was a pause. “Who is this?”
“It’s me. Rohan.”
Another pause, longer this time. “I think you have the wrong number.”
The line went dead.
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I stared at the phone, my hands shaking. What had I done? What could I have possibly changed to erase myself from my own mother’s memory?
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I returned to my apartment — or at least, what I thought was my apartment. The key fit, but the space inside was alien. The furniture was different, the walls adorned with art I’d never seen before. My reflection in the mirror was the same, but everything else screamed that this wasn’t my life anymore.
I sat down at the desk, the device in front of me. It was both a marvel and a curse, a machine capable of bending time to my will. But I had been careless, reckless. I had treated time like a game, and now I was paying the price.
I opened my laptop, hoping to find some clue about this timeline. My search history was unrecognizable, filled with topics I’d never looked up: advanced physics, ancient civilizations, rare medical conditions. It was as if this version of me had lived an entirely different life.
Then I found the journal. A digital log saved to my desktop, titled “The Tides of Time.”
My heart raced as I clicked on it. The entries were detailed, chronicling every jump I had made, every change I had attempted. Some of the entries were familiar, matching my own memories. Others were completely foreign, describing events and decisions I had no recollection of making.
One entry stood out:
March 3, 2023
I went back to stop the accident. It worked. She’s alive. But things are... different. I don’t know if I did the right thing. The ripple effects are stronger than I anticipated. I need to be more careful.
I scrolled further, my eyes scanning the words frantically. Each entry painted a picture of a man spiraling out of control, consumed by the power he wielded. The changes grew larger, more desperate. And then, near the end:
May 15, 2023
I’ve lost track of how many jumps I’ve made. I’m not even sure who I am anymore. The device is faulty. It’s creating fractures, merging timelines. I need to fix this. I need to find the original timeline and go back.
The original timeline. My chest tightened. That was the answer, wasn’t it? I had to undo everything, reset the clock, and return to where it all began.
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The next few days were a blur of preparation. I modified the device, reinforcing its components and recalibrating its settings. If I was going to fix this, I needed to be precise. One wrong move, and I could make things even worse.
I mapped out my plan, tracing my steps back through the journal. Each jump had to be undone in reverse order, like untying a knot. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was the only way.
The final jump loomed ahead, the one that would take me back to the very beginning. Back to the moment when I first activated the device. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the button. What if this didn’t work? What if I couldn’t fix it?
But I had to try. For my family. For Maria. For myself.
I pressed the button, and the world dissolved around me. Time stretched and contracted, pulling me through its tides. And then, with a jolt, I was back.
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The room was exactly as I remembered it: cluttered with tools and blueprints, the air thick with the smell of soldering metal. The device sat on the table, untouched. My heart pounded as I realized what this meant. I had a chance to stop it all before it began.
But as I reached for the device, a voice stopped me. My voice.
“Are you sure about this?”
I turned, and there he was — another version of me, the one who had started this madness. His eyes were weary, his expression haunted. “You think you can fix everything, but you can’t. Time doesn’t work that way.”
“I have to try,” I said, my voice firm.
He shook his head. “Every action has consequences. You’ll only make it worse.”
“I’ve already made it worse,” I shot back. “But I can’t just stand by and do nothing.”
For a moment, we stared at each other, the weight of our decisions hanging between us. Then he stepped aside, his expression unreadable.
“Good luck,” he said, his voice tinged with both hope and despair.
I picked up the device, my hands steady. This was it. The final leap. The tides of time were pulling me under, but I was determined to swim against them, to find my way back to shore.
I pressed the button, and the world shifted once more.