If someone were to ask me what time is, I would know the answer. But if they asked me to explain it… I would not know how.
"Time is not as fixed as we believe it to be; it is the hidden measure that makes change possible. It is a living fabric that moves with everything around us, changing as everything else changes—the fabric that gives events their order, things their continuity, and consequences their place within the chain of causes. Trying to control it, or escape it, is like swimming against a current that never ends.
But if everything changes with the passage of time…
If something changes, does it remain the same thing?
Is our identity something fixed, or is it merely a sense of continuity that the mind imposes upon something that is constantly changing?
Perhaps we have no answer to that. And perhaps the strangest thing about time is that we never experience it independently of our minds in the same way we experience other things. We can reach the past only through memory, the future through anticipation, and the present only through awareness.
Our experience of time, then, is tied to the mind just as much as it is to the world around us.
But if the past can be reached only through memory, and the future only through anticipation… what is it that we truly experience?
Yet no matter how differently we perceive time, there is one thing we cannot ignore: events do not occur in isolation. They are connected to one another.
But if time drives everything toward change, why does the world appear orderly in the first place?
Perhaps because order is not a permanent state. As time passes, isolated systems tend to move from more ordered states toward states of greater disorder, toward what we call chaos, unless energy from outside intervenes to maintain that order.
Perhaps that is why some have argued that the existence of order itself raises a question about its source.
Can order arise from chaos alone?
Or is there some will, some principle older than the universe itself, standing behind it?
But what if chaos is not merely the end of order?
What if chaos is what opens the way for possibility?
If time is a river through which events flow, then chaos is the restless waves and sudden currents within it—forces that make the journey impossible to predict, yet at the same time open countless possible paths.
And here, another question arises.
If there are countless possible paths, what determines the one we take?
Do we choose the path?
Or was it determined before we ever reached it?
Or is what we call "fate" merely the name we give to the path that has already been taken?
Whatever the answer may be, there is one truth no human being can escape.
Everything born within time is eventually consumed by it.
And man is the only creature who knows that he is walking toward his own end.
But what if death is not merely an ending?
What if it is simply another consequence imposed upon us by time?
Human beings are aware of their end, and yet they still try to live as though they will live forever.
But can anyone truly say yes to a life they know they would never die from?
Perhaps that is why time is the authority that determines what was, what is, and what will be.
If someone could control time, they would not merely be controlling the hands of a clock.
They could tamper with death, memory, causality, identity, history, and fate.
Then, is time not the fabric from which existence itself is woven, the surface upon which our stories are written?
Is time something we must submit to?
Or is it something that can be broken?
But if time could be broken… what would happen to the things that depend upon it?
What happens to a cause if its effect no longer has to wait for it?
What happens to a memory if the past from which it was born is changed?
What happens to identity if the events that made us who we are are altered?
And what happens to possibility if it becomes possible to move between countless paths instead of being forced to follow only one?
What happens if the river stops?
A single moment, different from every other moment in time, might be enough to change every rule.
A moment in which events belong neither to the past nor to the future, nor even to the present as we understand it.
A moment in which the world becomes… caught between two states.
And what if there were one hour…
An hour that belonged entirely to neither of them?
This is the hour in which everything begins…
And everything ends.
The river through which we move without ever having the choice to stop. We do not own time. We are but passersby."
—
It wasn't thirst that woke him up that pitch-black night, nor the dryness in his throat, nor the sudden dizziness that struck him, but the relentless storm of thoughts that gnawed at him for hours.
Thoughts that circled endlessly, refusing to die, like an insect trapped in a jar, beating its wings against the glass, buzzing and scraping, filling the room with an irritating hum.
Strange… for despite all the chaos inside your head, you're someone who can't even make a simple decision—like what kind of coffee to drink, or whether to open the window and let the cold air remind you that you still exist.
At times, everything around you feels unreal,
your own breath begins to strangle you, the clock ticks louder than your pulse, and perhaps you start hearing things that aren't really there.
You keep telling yourself it's nothing—yet deep down, you know that "nothing" could also have a meaning.
And tonight, it's getting closer.
So what if you saw something that opened a door…one that could never be closed again? Would you enter, knowing that the moment you do, you'll never truly wake up again, because some dreams don't end when you open your eyes?
The tap was running as he cupped his hands under the water, washing his face. Above the sink, he caught his reflection in the mirror—revealing pale skin, faint grey eyes, and white hair, despite his otherwise youthful appearance.
A few seconds later, the sound of running water from the bathroom stopped.
A faint whine from his dog drew Sian to the living room. In the middle of the room stood the shadow of someone, and his dog remained still, its eyes fixed on the figure. The room was cloaked in darkness, making it difficult to see clearly. The only light came from the moon, slipping silently through the window and casting a pale glow across the space.
Sian, who lived alone, stared at the motionless figure, confused. It was draped in a crimson cloak, its hood pulled low over its head, concealing every trace of its identity as it kept its back turned to him.
Finally managing to ask, he said, still dazed, "You… how did you get in?"
But then he realized that he was no longer in his apartment, and a wave of shock swept over him.
The world around him had shifted—quietly, almost tenderly—without him realizing it.
His eyes darted around the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings.
The walls were covered in dark, carved wooden panels, their surfaces etched with fine, intricate patterns.
Paintings of people sketched by hand lined the walls—their faces unfinished, as if a hand had begun to draw them, then swept across them in a single motion, leaving only faint streaks where features should have been.
Ornately carved sofas with floral patterns stood near the walls, their rich fabric contrasting with the dark wood of the room.
Long red curtains brushed the floor, and a massive rug stretched beneath his feet, leading toward a large marble fireplace at the far end of the room. Before it stood the same cloaked figure.
Above the fireplace, mounted on the wall, hung a large portrait: a blonde woman in a flowing white dress, sitting on a chair with a baby in her arms. A soft smile touched her serene face. Behind her stood a faceless man in a formal black suit.
The silence was thick.
Crackling flames danced in the hearth, casting a golden hue across the room.
The figure's finger pointed toward a cradle in the corner of the room, as a baby's cry echoed softly.
He followed the pointing finger and approached the cradle. He reached down, slowly pulling the blanket back to reveal the child's face—
A grotesque creature.
Demonic. Deformed.
a violent surge of panic struck him, and he felt his heartbeat begin to race uncontrollably as he staggered back in horror.
But before he could react, the figure appeared behind him in a flash, striking him with a powerful blow to the abdomen. The impact sent him flying through the air. His body split into fading echoes as he was flung out of the room.
As he hurtled backward, suspended for a heartbeat in midair, his gaze fell upon the burning room. Flames devoured the curtains and the fallen portraits—everything they touched. The fire crawled along the walls, consuming the wooden frame, its orange glow tearing through the darkness.
It burned everything, as fire consumes all that it touches. Sparks danced through the air, darkening the room and blinding the eyes. Smoke billowed upward, twisting like a living shadow.
And then—
everything was gone.
Even the stranger was gone.
The wall clock had only just passed midnight, its steady ticking echoing softly through the silent room. Sitting on the edge of the windowsill, his feet still resting on the floor, Sian gazed at the sky—a vast sea of black illuminated only by the pale glow of the moon. The dream still lingered in his mind, refusing to let him rest.
Beside him, Beatrice lay on her belly. A shaft of moonlight spilled through the window and fell across her face, illuminating her mismatched eyes—one hazel and the other blue—as she stared upward. A soft whine escaped her, quiet enough to blend with the ticking of the clock.