What is time?
Is it a river, flowing in one direction without mercy?
Is it a line, stretching from a fixed beginning toward an inevitable end?
Or is it something far more fragile—something that can bend, bruise, or even break?
We measure it.
We trust it.
We build our lives around it.
But what if time is not what we believe it to be?
What if the past is not finished?
What if the future has already happened?
What if every second we call "now" is only a thin thread holding together events that were never meant to touch?
How does a man vanish without a sound?
No shattered glass.
No forced doors.
No final words.
One moment he exists within the quiet walls of his study, surrounded by equations and unanswered questions. The next moment, he does not.
Did he leave?
Was he taken?
Or did he step into something we have never learned to see?
If time is stable, such things should not happen.
If reality is fixed, it should not tear.
And yet—
Across history there are moments that feel misplaced. Accidents that defy probability. Encounters that seem rehearsed by fate. Events that echo as though they have occurred before.
Coincidence, we call them.
But what if they are fractures?
What if the past, present, and future are not separate chapters—but overlapping pages?
What if someone learned how to turn them?
And what if every choice creates a ripple that does not move forward… but outward?
Somewhere in this vast architecture of seconds and centuries stands a young man named William Anderson. He does not yet understand why the patterns point toward him. He does not yet know why his father's disappearance feels less like loss and more like consequence.
But questions have weight.
And when enough questions gather, they begin to pull at the fabric of reality itself.
What happened that night?
What will happen because of it?
And if time can be traveled—
can it also be hunted?
rewritten?
undone?
Perhaps the greater question is not what time is.
Perhaps it is this:
If everything is connected—
who, or what, is holding the threads?