"The hardest battles aren't fought with swords—they're fought within your mind."
Amelia awoke to sunlight streaming through her window, her heart pounding. The dream had been so real. She and Amalina, no older than ten, had been sitting on a porch, laughing as they painted each other's faces with bright colors.
But she knew it wasn't real. It couldn't be. Could it?
---
"Morning," Thomas said, leaning against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee.
Amelia barely looked at him, her mind elsewhere. "Thomas… did I ever tell you about a porch in my childhood?"
He frowned. "No. Why?"
"I…" She hesitated. "I keep seeing things. Like memories. But they're not mine—or at least, I don't think they are."
Thomas's expression darkened. "It's the timeline. It's rewriting itself, and it's pulling you into the cracks."
"Cracks?"
Thomas set his coffee down. "Reality isn't holding up, Amelia. I noticed it yesterday—look." He held up his watch, the second hand ticking backward.
Amelia stared. "That's… not possible."
"And it's not just this." He pointed to the wall clock. It was frozen at 9:14, though Amelia was sure it had been working moments ago.
---
They walked to a nearby coffee shop to clear their heads. The streets were quiet, eerily so.
Inside, the barista greeted them cheerfully. "Morning, Casca! Your usual latte?"
Amelia froze. "What did you call me?"
The barista looked confused. "Casca? That's your name, right?"
"No," Amelia said, her voice sharp. "It's Amelia."
"Oh, I must've gotten you mixed up with someone else," the barista mumbled, embarrassed.
Thomas leaned close as they sat at a corner table. "Casca?"
"I don't know," Amelia said, her hands trembling. "I don't even recognize that name."
---
Later, as they walked through the park, Amelia's mind swirled with questions. Who was Casca? And why did the name send a chill down her spine?
"Amelia," Thomas said, breaking the silence. "You have to tell me everything you've been seeing. Every vision, every feeling—don't hold back."
She hesitated but finally spoke. "It's like… pieces of a puzzle. A porch, Amalina painting, me laughing. It's beautiful, but it doesn't feel real. And yet…" She trailed off.
"You want it to be real," Thomas finished for her.
She nodded, guilt twisting in her stomach. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't even know who I am anymore."
Thomas placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Listen to me. You're Amelia. You're real. Don't let the timeline trick you into forgetting that."
---
The sky darkened suddenly, thunder rumbling in the distance. Amelia blinked, and the world around her shifted.
She was no longer in the park. She stood in a field, rain pouring down, Amalina clutching her hand tightly.
"Don't let go!" Amalina shouted over the storm, her voice panicked.
"I won't!" Amelia yelled back, but her grip faltered as lightning lit up the sky.
Suddenly, the scene vanished, and Amelia gasped, realizing she was back in the park. Her hand wasn't holding Amalina's. It was gripping Thomas's arm.
"Amelia?" Thomas's voice was urgent.
She looked around. The sky was clear, the sun shining. But her heart raced as if she'd just run a mile.
"I… I saw her," Amelia whispered. "She was right there. In the storm."
Thomas's face tightened. "We need to figure this out before you lose yourself completely."
Amelia nodded, but deep down, she wondered if it was already too late.
.
.
.
"Truth hides in the strangest places—sometimes, even in the cracks of a lie."
The air in Amalina's apartment was thick with the smell of paint and varnish, but there was something else—something intangible. Amelia couldn't place it, but it felt heavy, almost oppressive.
"Welcome to my little sanctuary," Amalina said, gesturing around with a wide smile.
Thomas muttered under his breath, "Little, she says."
The walls were covered in paintings, each more mesmerizing than the last. Landscapes that seemed to move, portraits so lifelike they felt like they were watching, and abstract swirls of color that tugged at something deep inside Amelia.
But one painting caught her attention immediately—a large canvas at the center of the room, glowing faintly. The colors swirled and pulsed, like it was alive.
"Do you like it?" Amalina asked, noticing Amelia's stare.
Amelia hesitated. "It's… beautiful, but…"
"It's warm," Thomas interrupted, stepping closer to the canvas. He held his hand out but quickly pulled it back. "It's actually warm."
"That's just the lighting," Amalina said too quickly.
Thomas arched a brow. "Is it?"
---
Amelia stepped closer, her fingers brushing the edge of the frame. As she did, a flash of memory jolted through her—Amalina laughing, holding the glowing painting in a darkened room. "It's a doorway," Amalina had said in the vision, her voice echoing.
"Amelia?" Thomas's voice pulled her back.
"I… I don't know," she murmured. "It feels familiar, but I've never seen it before."
"That's impossible," Amalina said, her tone almost defensive.
Thomas turned to Amalina, his expression sharp. "What do these symbols mean?" He pointed to faint sigils hidden in the corners of several paintings.
Amalina frowned. "What symbols?"
"These." Thomas leaned in, tracing one of the markings. "They look like temporal markers. I've seen something like this before."
Amalina laughed nervously. "They're just… brushstrokes. Nothing more."
Thomas wasn't convinced. "Are they?"
---
Amelia studied Amalina closely. "You don't know why your paintings feel strange, do you?"
Amalina hesitated, her smile faltering. "No. I mean, I don't think so. They just… come to me. I paint what I see in my mind."
"And the glowing one?" Amelia pressed.
Amalina's hesitation was longer this time. "It's just a painting, Amelia. Nothing more."
Thomas narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."
"I'm not!" Amalina snapped, but the defensive edge in her voice betrayed her. "Look, I don't know what's going on any more than you do."
---
As the conversation grew tense, Thomas shifted tactics. "Okay, Amalina. Let me ask you something simple. Who was the first president of the United States?"