Salem Grey landed in a landscape that felt both familiar and completely alien. The ground beneath him rippled like liquid glass, reflecting fragmented skies overhead—blue, gray, and faint green, as if multiple versions of the same morning were stacked on top of each other.
He staggered to his feet, brushing off invisible dust. His journal, which had been resting safely in his backpack, vibrated violently. Pages flipped open on their own, scrawled handwriting leaping from line to line: "Remember. Every skip matters. Every fragment echoes."
"Ah, the dramatic reminders," the Writer's voice chimed, sneaking in from nowhere and everywhere. "Nothing like a little existential dread to start the chapter."
Salem scowled. "Seriously, Writer, can you just… let me exist for five minutes without commentary?"
"Existence is overrated," the Writer said. "Chaos, however… is mandatory."
Before Salem could respond, the air shimmered, and multiple versions of himself appeared around him. Some were younger, laughing recklessly, unaware of the skips. Others were older, hollow-eyed, scribbling frantic notes onto invisible papers.
Salem blinked. "Great. A Salem convention. Do I get to vote for the least sane one?"
"Not necessary," the Writer said, almost teasingly. "They all count. Every Salem is an echo of choices, regrets, and, unfortunately, bad hair days."
One of the younger Salems ran forward, waving a glowing cube in his hands. "This is it! This is the fragment we need to fix everything!"
Salem froze. "Wait. Fix everything? Isn't that… dangerous?"
The older, scarred Salem shook his head slowly. "Danger is a permanent side effect of curiosity."
"Also, Reader's note," the Writer interjected. "You'll want to pay attention here. Very important plot stuff. Or not. Your choice."
The cube pulsed, and the fragmented timelines around them vibrated, overlapping. The younger Salem reached toward it, but his hand passed through the glowing object as if it weren't fully there.
"Ah, temporal instability," the Writer explained. "Lovely, isn't it? Time behaves like it has a hangover. Skip days, viral fragments, echoes of forgotten decisions… all mixed into one delightful mess."
Salem rubbed his temples. "I'm beginning to feel that hangover."
The ground beneath them cracked, revealing glimpses of past July revolutions, empty hospitals during early COVID days, and neon signs from distant futures. The scenes flickered like broken television channels, each fragment whispering hints of events that hadn't fully happened yet.
"Focus, Salem. Tiny hints. Big consequences," the Writer said.
Salem glanced at the cube again. "So, this is why I've been skipping days? Because of… this?"
"Partially. The rest is a mix of your decisions, chaos, and Reader demand for dramatic storytelling. Think of it as… a narrative cocktail."
He grabbed the cube cautiously. Energy pulsed through his fingers, resonating with every memory of a day that had vanished. The skipped days weren't just lost—they were carried within the cube, small fragments of forgotten moments, waiting to be either fixed or shattered.
A distorted voice echoed, layered in multiple tones: "Do not trust the past. Do not fear the future. Only now exists… or does it?"
Salem's chest tightened. "Great. Cryptic warnings now too."
"You're welcome," the Writer said, almost proudly.
Suddenly, the environment shifted. One moment, they were standing on liquid glass; the next, Salem found himself on a crowded street in 2020, children coughing, adults masked, alarms blaring, yet all of it seemed… off. People moved in loops, slightly out of sync, as if some invisible editor was trimming frames from their lives.
He glimpsed a boy in the crowd—the same one from his fragmented memories, the one who had vanished on a skipped day. The boy's eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, recognition passed between them. Then, he blinked, and the boy was gone.
"Ah, the emotional hooks," the Writer said, almost gleefully. "Important for Reader retention. Don't blink too long, Salem. You might miss the plot."
Salem exhaled sharply. "You're enjoying this way too much."
A ripple in the air drew his attention. Shadows swirled, forming vague shapes of soldiers, scientists, and older Salems. Each whispering warnings, advice, and occasionally insults.
"Listen carefully," a shadow hissed. "You cannot fix everything at once. Fragmented time bites back."
Salem frowned. "Then what do I do?"
"Collect, observe, survive. And maybe, just maybe, don't go insane. Or do. Makes for better storytelling."
The cube in his hands pulsed brighter. Fragments of skipped days, viral anomalies, and twisted futures flashed in its glow. One fragment—marked by July revolution imagery—moved closer, almost as if calling to him.
Salem stepped forward, heart hammering. Every instinct screamed caution, yet curiosity pushed him onward. As he reached for it, the cube shifted, projecting a holographic map of timelines: 2020, 1975, 2063, and countless branching possibilities.
"Oh yes," the Writer said, "time travel, chaos, echoes… you're finally entering the meat of it. Just a tease until Chapter Forty-One."
The cube vibrated violently, fragments of the past and glimpses of the future colliding around him. Each pulse of energy carried memories he'd lost, choices he hadn't made, and warnings he couldn't fully understand yet.
Salem's hands shook. "So… I'm responsible for all of this?"
"Not exactly responsible," the Writer said. "Merely… central. Focus of events. Catalyst. Main character. You know, that little role you've been doing so well."
Suddenly, the cube split into hundreds of tiny fragments, scattering through the air like fireflies. Each fragment carried a timeline, a memory, a potential choice. Salem lunged to catch as many as he could, feeling the weight of every skipped day in his chest.
"Yes! Collect them! Embrace chaos! Pretend you understand what's happening!" the Writer shouted, almost dancing with excitement.
Salem's fingers closed around a few fragments. Each pulse sent ripples through the air, bending time slightly, distorting nearby objects. Shadows twisted, reality shimmered, and the faint hum of the multiverse whispered warnings in a language he almost understood.
He swallowed, steadying his breath. "Okay… focus. I can handle this. I will handle this."
"Admirable optimism," the Writer said softly. "We'll see how long it lasts."
The cube fragments pulsed in sync with the skipped days he had experienced, the July revolution memories, and the viral echoes. Time quivered, preparing for the collision of past, present, and future.
Salem's eyes narrowed. "Then let's make it count. I've got fragments to catch, timelines to mend, and a story to survive."
"Excellent," the Writer said, voice dripping with anticipation. "Now, let's see what chaos you can create with it. And remember… the Readers are watching."
Salem gritted his teeth, steeling himself against the surge of power, fear, and sheer absurdity that radiated from the scattered fragments. Somewhere deep in him, he knew the next choices would define not only his story but the very fabric of every timeline he touched.
"Chapter Forty-One is ready, Salem. Are you?"
Salem inhaled deeply, eyes on the glowing fragments swirling around him. "I was born ready. Let's go."