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In a dream where water stretched in all directions, two people floated on what felt more like an idea of a raft—creaking with every wave. Salt clung to their skin like old tears

The man shifted, stretching his legs across the uneven boards, squinting into the haze. Once, he might’ve rattled off the year a kingdom fell or which forgotten empire crumbled into dust. He used to draw timelines across napkins and speak history like it was a sermon—but now he named cloud shapes and counted the groans of wood. All that learning, and still, none of it prepared him for a world made entirely of water.

The girl sat opposite, her knees drawn up under her chin, the faded hood of her T-Rex costume casting her eyes in shadow. It had once been green, she was sure of it. Now it looked like sun-bleached canvas and fossil dust. She’d stopped trying to fix it. Things stayed broken out here.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she said, like she was picking up a thought she’d left mid-sentence days ago. “Like the world had a dream and now it’s trying to remember how it ended—but can’t.”

He looked at her for a moment. Then replied, softer than he expected, “Maybe dreams don’t end. Maybe they just spill over into things that feel real. Like saltwater into a cut—you feel the sting before you understand the wound, and by then it’s already part of you.”

They floated.

They didn’t talk about land anymore—like it was a word from another language they used to speak but forgot how to pronounce.

They didn’t talk about food, either—not because they weren’t hungry, but because hunger felt strange here. Like a dream-echo of something once real.

The sea didn’t pretend to have answers this time—it gave one, sudden and sharp, in the form of birds.

Not above—below. Gulls screamed in the distance, not overhead but skimming the water’s surface far off, circling and diving. The girl spotted it first.

“Bait ball?” she murmured, the words sounding more like a memory than something she fully understood. Her voice was quiet.

The man followed her gaze. Sure enough, the water not far from their drifting path shimmered all over with fish. Tight ripples. Sudden splashes. Quick flashes of silver where small fish boiled toward the surface.

“Too much food in one place,” he muttered. “Something bigger always follows.”

Neither of them moved. There was nowhere to go. The raft creaked again.

And something unseen brushed the underside of the raft with a soft thud.

The girl flinched.

Then, slowly, a shape began to form in the water ahead. Not a boat. Not wreckage. It didn’t move like debris. It felt… fixed. Rooted. Something older.

As they approached, the sea grew oddly calm. The shimmer on the surface shifted. Stone emerged—just the faintest peak of it, worn and weathered.

The top of a structure, maybe. Angled. Sloped.

The man stared. His breath caught.

“Looks like a pyramid,” he said, almost too quietly.

The girl leaned forward. “It doesn’t feel… Egyptian.”

He nodded. “No. The shape’s off. Too smooth. And those carvings…”

They could just make out the markings beneath the lapping waves: spirals, teeth, moons swallowing suns.

“Maya” the man said, slowly. “They built calendars so precise, you’d think they were trying to talk to time itself.”

“Timetalkers?” she paused, then scrunched her face. “No—Timewalkers, right?” she corrected, voice low, a little embarrassed. “They didn’t think time went straight,” she said. “They thought it kind of curled… like it was chasing itself in circles.”

The man blinked. He hadn’t expected her to know that. Not just the word—Timewalkers—but the meaning behind it. He’d studied that same belief, traced it through glyphs and crumbling walls. And here it was, spilling from a girl in a T-Rex hoodie like it had always lived in her head.

The girl looked up again, shading her eyes. Something moved—slow, heavy-winged, tracing a long arc overhead. “What’s that?” she asked, voice hushed.

An albatross plummeted from the sky—wings folding in like a broken promise—and struck the water beside them with a sound like punctuation. It flapped once, then climbed onto the edge of the raft, massive and sodden. It stared at them. It didn’t blink.

The girl recoiled, just a little. Not a scream, not a flinch—more like her body remembered to be afraid before she did. “Why is it here?” she whispered, as if saying it louder might break something.

She didn’t take her eyes off it.

The albatross spread its wings suddenly—broad and ragged, catching the heat like a fallen sail. It let out a sharp, croaking call, somewhere between a squawk and a warning. Then it stopped.

Something bumped the raft again. Harder this time. A thick, deliberate push from below.

The albatross snapped its head to the side, eyes narrowing.

Then, without grace, it stepped back into the water and launched itself upward in a thunder of wings and spray. It rose fast, climbing the sky in ragged spirals until it vanished into the haze.

The man said quietly, “That’s not good.”

He didn’t look at her as he spoke. “Albatrosses don’t usually come that close to people. And when they do… old stories say it’s a warning. Or a price.”

The girl tilted her head, watching the place where the bird had vanished. “What kind of price?”

He hesitated, then softened his voice. “Sea people used to say they showed up before something big. Storms. Shipwrecks. Or changes that don’t let you go back.”

Something under them was still watching.

The sea shifted—then the dance began. Not chaos, but choreography. Guardians first.

The dolphins—six of them, maybe more, slipping through the water like thoughts that almost made sense. They circled the raft once, twice. One leapt, curved midair like a smile, then vanished below.

Another swam alongside, so close the girl could see its eye. It looked back at her. Just for a moment. As if it knew.

The girl whispered, “They’re playing?” as if she couldn’t quite believe it. Her voice had wonder in it, but something quieter too—like she knew not to trust joy this far from land.

The pod moved together like a single thought—twisting, diving, resurfacing. One slapped its tail against the water in a sharp, rhythmic beat. Another nudged a drifting piece of kelp toward the raft like a sign. It lingered there, just long enough to feel deliberate—like a message they didn’t yet understand, waiting to be followed.

The man didn’t speak. He just watched. Something in him loosened.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, everything stopped.

The dolphins vanished. The water went still. No wind. No sound. Even the light seemed to hush.

A new shape rose in the distance.

Black and smooth and too fast. An orca.

Then another.

And another.

They weren’t playing.

They moved with eerie coordination, slicing the water with purpose. One circled wide. Another drifted closer to the raft’s edge, barely causing a ripple.

Then it turned.

And pushed.

The wave technique wasn’t fast. It was slow. Curious. A test.

The raft bobbed.

The girl grabbed the edge. “What are they doing?”

The man narrowed his eyes, watching the precise rhythm of the waves. He didn’t answer at first.

Then, slowly: “They’re trying to… wash us off.”

Below, light shimmered. Not sunlight. Not moonlight.

A golden glow, deep and pulsing. It bled upward from beneath the pyramid—from inside it.

The thread, gold and trembling, began to rise.

Then one of the orcas surfaced—right beside the raft. Close enough to touch. Its eye broke the surface, black and depthless, watching them.

The girl froze.

The orca lingered. No movement. Just that impossible stillness, the kind that made you feel measured.

Then, slowly, it began to sink again. Not retreating—just fading back into the water.

The next push came harder. A deeper roll, more coordinated.

The orcas were testing the limits now. Practiced. Intentional.

Another swell rocked the raft, water sloshing over their feet.

The man tightened his grip on the edge. “They want us in.”

Behind them, the orcas closed in—tight formation, all muscle and shadow, rushing toward the raft with terrifying speed.

The third wave came—not violent, but certain. It didn’t crash. It claimed.

The raft tilted just enough. Their balance slipped. And then they were in the water.

Cold swallowed them, sudden and whole. Bubbles. Silence. Then motion.

All around them, dolphins.

Not six. Not ten. Dozens.

They moved like a living current, circling the man and the girl, keeping them close. Keeping the sea back.

They weren’t playing anymore.

The man surfaced first, gasping. The girl beside him. They clung to each other, the water lit from below.

The golden glow grew stronger, pulsing from the pyramid beneath. The thread was there—rising, gleaming, humming just under the surface.

The dolphins swam tighter. Not blocking. Guiding.
As if they knew the others were coming—and this was the only way through.

The girl reached for the thread first.

She didn’t hesitate. But for the smallest moment, her fingers hovered—like even her body wasn’t sure if this was bravery or instinct. Then she grabbed hold.

Fingers brushed gold. Then gripped it.

She screamed back through the water, voice garbled by sea and urgency. “Follow me!”
Behind her, the dolphins turned—not to flee, but to hold the line.

The man dove.

Beneath them, the sea erupted. Not with noise, but life—a chaos of motion and colour.

Fish fled in all directions, flashes of silver darting through shadow. Coral towers loomed up from the pyramid’s side, vibrant and flickering with bioluminescent threads. Jellyfish spiralled like paper lanterns, drifting between ruined statues and broken steps.

The water around them then pulsed with life and sound. Clicks snapped sharp and quick—dolphin thoughts firing—fast, frequent, frantic—like nerves lit up with instinct. Deep, melodic calls from orcas throbbed through the sea, slow and resonant, as if echoing from a deeper world. It wasn’t just noise—it was language, thick and alive. Even the girl could feel it, vibrating in her ribs like music too old to name.

Dolphins shot past, tight and fast, forming a shield around the two sinking figures. They dove deep, then spun upward again, churning the sea into swirling ribbons.

Orcas surged through the blue just beyond, cutting wide circles—driving the fish ahead of them, pressing in, trying to corral.

A stingray brushed past. Eels uncoiled from crevices like half-formed thoughts.

The pyramid beneath glowed brighter, lines of gold trailing along its cracked face. Carvings ignited—sun-swallowing moons, spirals within spirals.

The girl kicked down toward it, hair trailing like ink. The man followed.

Everywhere, sea life moved—panicked, deliberate, swarming, fleeing, chasing.

And at the centre of it all, the thread held steady.

They followed it down.

A single line of gold, humming like memory.

The sea boiled behind them.

Two dolphins fell into place beside them, one on each side.

Without speaking, without signal, they dipped closer—inviting.

The girl reached first, wrapping her arms around the nearest dorsal fin. The man did the same, more hesitant, but trusting.

The dolphins kicked hard.

They moved fast—down, then forward—pulling the two humans along with sudden, elegant speed.

The thread shimmered just ahead, lighting their way like a ribbon of starlight through the deep.

They swam toward the temple wall, where time and stone had split open. A narrow tunnel yawned—black at the edges, golden in the middle.

The dolphins carried them to the edge, then released them gently.

They kicked forward on their own now, drawn toward the breach. A breathless silence wrapped around them as they passed inside.

And then, impossibly—

A air pocket. A space beneath the sea where breath returned like a gift.

They coughed as they broke the surface, lungs grabbing at the unfamiliar air. The girl clung to the edge of a stone platform, slick with moss and time. The man joined her, heaving himself up beside her with a groan.

The dolphins were gone. No farewell, no second glance. Just gone.

The man looked back at the entrance, then at the still water inside the chamber. “It’s like the world didn’t trust us to get here on our own. So it made us come.”

The girl didn’t answer. She was staring up.

The ceiling of the chamber wasn’t stone—it was water, held above them like glass, impossibly suspended as if the sea itself had paused to watch. Light shimmered through it in waves, casting moving patterns across the walls like a living painting.

Carvings surrounded them, deep and worn: spirals within spirals, suns eating moons, animals with too many eyes.

But no sound. No current. No time.

It was like the sea had exhaled… and left them suspended inside the breath.

They didn’t speak. They barely breathed. The quiet held them like the hush before thunder—too full to name, too fragile to break.

Then the ceiling began to ripple.

Not with waves—but with retreat. The water above them shimmered, then pulled away—not upward, not downward, but backward.

It slid like reversed film, drawing away through the same tunnel they’d entered. The golden light dimmed as if pulled with it.

The girl whispered, “Where is it going?”

The man turned toward the tunnel, but the water there had vanished—not drained, but drawn, like breath from a lung.

Above them, where the ceiling of water had once held light like stained glass, there was now only one thing.

Sky.

The girl whispered, “I think… we’re not where we were.”

And she was right—the sky above wasn’t theirs.

If this were a story told in film, the camera would rise now—above the girl, the man, the temple. It would lift past the trees and the vanishing waves, into the new sky that loomed with watching stars.

From high above, the world blurred.

Time rippled—light bent—sun and moon flickered across the sky like candleflame caught in a breeze. The sea peeled backward, not crashing away but unravelling—like breath returned to lungs long emptied.

Clouds spun in reverse. Shadows grew long and short and long again. Rivers wound themselves back uphill. Coral blinked out of existence. Whole forests reassembled—trees knitting from stumps, then from roots, then from nothing at all.

Mountains shifted. Valleys filled. Wind screamed backwards through time.

Jungle sounds echoed along the tunnel. A roar called out in the distance—a sound older than memory.

Then, in the stillness, came motion: shapes in the mist. Massive. Feathered. Reptilian. Watching.

Time had not merely turned back.

It had changed its mind.

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❂ The thread winds this way.

Follow where it frays, tangles, or tightens.

Each part holds the next—and the next part is just below.