Chapter 1 — Time

  Arthur sits behind his desk, watching the clock. The second hand clicks too loudly, like it enjoys the sound. Tension builds with every tick.

  The phone rings sharply. He snatches it up before the second chime has a chance to form.

  “Marmael and Gregs. If you need the time, we have the piece. How can I help you?”

  A harsh squawk answers—muffled, irritated, full of authority. Arthur winces and pulls the receiver away from his ear, shielding both his sanity and the delicate inner workings of it.

  “Yes, sir. I—sorry, sir. I know Mr. Gregs.” His voice stiffens, frustration pressing in with every word. “Yes, my job is important to me. I’ll come in tomorrow and make up the time. My wife has an appointment today.”

  A pause. Then silence.

  Arthur lowers the phone, muttering as he sets it down, “Yes, sir. For free, sir. I know you don’t care about me or my wife, sir.” The handset lands in its cradle with a dull, resigned clack—one that seems to mock every move he makes.

  Across the office, Brenda looks up, astonished, eyebrows raised. “How are you so composed?” she asks, her jaw nearly scraping the desk.

  Arthur rubs both hands over his face, trying to wake himself from the nightmare. “What else can I be? We need the insurance. If Sarah’s parents hadn’t left us the house, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  He stares at the clock again—tick, tick, tick—the sound too loud to ignore. Like a beating drum.

  “Screw this,” he mutters, throwing on his coat. “If he fires me, then he fires me.”

  He reaches home just in time. Sarah waits by the door, coat in hand, eyes bright with nerves. The drive is fast. Quiet. Every unspoken fear fills the space between them.

  At the appointment, the doctors speak in gentle tones, trying to soften the pain of what they must say. Arthur holds her hand, refusing to let any part of him break.

  It fails.

  On the way home, she cries quietly, and he grips the wheel hard enough for his knuckles to ache. His own tears fall anyway.

  The road feels endless—like the world has slowed down just to make them feel every mile.

  The memory dissolves.

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  — — —

  Three years later

  Sarah sits on a red sofa, reading, humming. The soft sound of water laps nearby — she doesn’t question it. A large marble white bookshelf stands behind her. Every book upon it is identical to the one in her hands. Another shelf stretches behind that one. And another. And another — disappearing into a white, peaceful horizon.

  From far away, a voice drifts in. “Come on, guys. Behave.”

  It’s Arthur.

  She smiles faintly, lovingly, her face lighting up at the sound of his voice.

  A sharper voice follows. “What was that? A quake?” A beat. “Let’s go!”

  Her smile fades. Concern replaces it. She stands — feet in an inch of water — just as thunder rolls through the stillness, growing.

  “I lov—”

  The thunder swells — drowning the words — until noise becomes light and then—

  Darkness. Wind howls.

  Arthur lies naked in a field of ash, soot clinging to his skin like snow. His lungs burn and sear with each ragged breath, as if the air itself is on fire.

  From inside the agony, Sarah’s voice cuts through the darkness, the noise, the pain.

  “Wake up, Arthur. Wake up.”

  Each word more insistent than the last.

  His bloodshot eyes snap open. Pain forces them shut again and again.

  “Wake up.”

  He pushes upright on trembling limbs. “I’m awake.” Smoke smothers the horizon. Fire dances everywhere. He collapses, choking.

  “They’re gone,” he whispers.

  “Who’s gone?” Sarah asks — distant, disoriented. “What the hell is happening?”

  Neither has the answer.

  The memory dissolves.

  — — —

  Five hundred years later

  Moonlight bathes a lonely road. Arthur’s face is expressionless as he stares into the night — like he’s searching for something lost long ago.

  He stumbles. A short, stubby green bottle slips from his hand, hits the ground, and rolls until it rests against a rock. Alcohol spills into the dirt, fizzing — wasted.

  Sarah sits in her library of endless marble-white shelves — what they call the White Void — perched on the familiar red couch. A violin rests beside her. She calls out gently, her voice finding his ear.

  “Please come in here and talk.”

  His voice echoes into the Void, as if manifesting from some far-off place — slurred, anguished, breaking as he screams into the night.

  “You don’t want to know. You only think you do.” He chokes on the words. “Why— how— I should’ve too.” Tears roll down his face. “Fuck you!” he screams to the heavens, as if shouting at God himself.

  A whisper meets the outburst — an attempt to cut through the hate, fragile and sincere.

  “Please… just talk to me.”

  She says the words like a blade.

  Arthur turns. In his hand is a small metallic coin-shaped drive — the last connection they have. Anger flashes through him.

  “You can’t want to hear these things,” he growls. “These things I can’t even bear to say.” He presses his hands to his temples.

  “Please,” Sarah says. “I love you, Arthur. Just come in here.”

  The rage and fear finally overtake him. He hurls the coin drive into the darkness. It sails away, disappearing as quickly as it leaves his hand — only a single glint in the moonlight before it vanishes.

  Regret is instant.

  He freezes, mind racing — then panic erupts, a single word tearing from his lips.

  “Sarah.”

  The search begins. Torchlight. Dirt. Desperation. Sobriety forced by terror.

  Day 1: He crawls on his hands and knees for hours, carving a messy grid across the ground. People ask questions. He ignores them all.

  Day 2: Sarah sits in a memory of a beach. “Please come back,” she whispers into waves of silence. A toddler — Arthur Jr. — runs up, giggling as water chases his toes. The moment crumbles to static.

  Day 3: Arthur hasn’t slept. His hands are raw with dirt. His voice is hollow. Dread eats him alive.

  Day 4: The White Void darkens. Sarah plays the violin, bow trembling. When the last note breaks, she lets the instrument fall. It splashes into the water below. The sound echoes through the void, reverberating for what feels like an eternity.

  Day 5: Filthy, exhausted, wild with self-hate and rage, he trips over a rock and slams into the ground. Tears, snot, and dirt smear his face as his broken cry splits the twilight.

  Then—

  A faint metallic glint.

  He screams — hope and relief tangled together — and crawls toward it, clutching the coin to his chest. He sobs, shaking, holding it like a lifeline.

  He appears in the White Void in a blink.

  Sarah sits curled tight, shaking. The once-white library is now muted gray, the light dim and cold.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I couldn’t face you until I found it.” His voice cracks. “I think… I think I found myself out there too.”

  Sarah lifts her eyes to meet his — feet in the cold water, violin resting at her side. The moment stretches, both too long and not nearly long enough.

  “I am here for you, Arthur,” she says softly. She wipes a tear from her eye as she steps toward him. “I need you too. If you don’t want to talk about it...”

  She wraps her arms around him.

  “I love you.”

  He looks into her eyes, kisses her. “I love you too.”

  Arthur never drank again.

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