Michael awoke with a jolt, his body heavy as if weighed down by invisible chains. He rubbed his eyes and looked around, blinking against the crimson glow that bathed the world around him. The sky was an angry red, the clouds swirling as though caught in an eternal storm, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed.
The memories of the echoing city, the forgotten figures, and Theo's whispered name were still fresh in his mind. But now, the world was… different. He was standing in a street he vaguely recognized, yet it felt like a fever-dream version of reality. The buildings, tall and familiar, were mixed with strange constructs of steel and glass, some shimmering with a neon glow. People walked along the sidewalks, but they were not alone. Mechanical figures moved among them, their metallic limbs clanking rhythmically, each one marked with an emblem Michael couldn't place—a symbol that looked like a fusion of ancient hieroglyphs and futuristic code.
"Where… am I?" he whispered, but the world answered only in silence.
He noticed others staring at him—some human, others not. A man with glowing red eyes glanced his way, nodding as though he recognized Michael. A woman passed by, her shadow elongated and twisted, moving out of sync with her body. Then came a creature—a creature Michael would have dismissed as myth in his own time—a hulking beast, its skin covered in dark fur, eyes burning with an unnatural flame. It walked past as if it belonged there, as if he was the anomaly.
Michael's heart pounded. History had never told of a world like this. There was no mention of supernatural creatures coexisting alongside humans, nor of robots and technology that seemed centuries ahead of his own time. He tried to recall the countless history books he had read, the stories of ancient times. Yet, this wasn't the world he remembered. It was like he had stepped into a forgotten chapter, one that had somehow written itself into existence while he wasn't looking.
He moved through the crowd, feeling the weight of eyes on him, each gaze filled with curiosity or suspicion. The city's pulse was unfamiliar, its air thick with an energy that seemed to vibrate through his bones. Then, through the crowd, he glimpsed something—a building that he recognized. It was the same library he had visited countless times, but here it stood taller, the walls lined with strange engravings that pulsed with a dim, otherworldly light.
Instinct drew him toward it. If he was going to make sense of this altered world, maybe the library could help him. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors and entered, the air inside cool and musty, filled with the scent of old parchment. Shelves stretched high above, lined with ancient tomes and holographic displays that projected words into the air, twisting and shifting in languages he didn't recognize.
As he wandered the aisles, he spotted a familiar symbol on the spine of one of the books—the same emblem that marked the robotic figures in the streets. His hand shook as he pulled it off the shelf. The book felt strangely alive, a faint hum resonating through its cover, which was bound in a material he couldn't identify. He opened it to find words etched in a language that danced between lines of English and symbols he couldn't decipher. He skimmed through the pages, snippets of text catching his eye:
"History is not a straight line. It is a tapestry woven with threads of memory and myth."
"In every forgotten tale lies a truth, waiting to be remembered."
"Beware the memory-keepers, for their silence is the guardian of the timeline."
Michael's mind raced. Had he somehow stumbled into a version of history that wasn't meant to be known? The concept felt absurd, yet as he scanned the pages, he found accounts of events that bore a strange resemblance to his own world—but twisted, layered with fragments of myths, as though reality had fused with forgotten stories.
Then, near the end of the book, he saw a passage that made his blood run cold:
"The one who remembers can reshape the world with a single action. But beware, for every change in the fabric of time unravels the thread of another."
He shut the book, his hands trembling. The implication was clear: his very presence here, his actions, his choices—they had the power to alter reality. He couldn't shake the feeling that even something as small as moving a chair or crossing a street could set off a chain reaction, one that could reshape history itself.