The attic smelled of burnt metal and memory, the time machine a skeletal relic under its tarp. Tylor and Kayla pored over the journal, its pages detailing how the machine's misuse could fracture time, creating rips that bled alternate realities. Amaira, perched on a crate, pointed out a sketch of a glowing dial, her intuition sharper than Tylor's logic. "It needs to spin faster," she said, her voice small but certain.
Kayla, her dark hair tied back, soldered wires with steady hands, her brow furrowed. "Your mom was a genius," she muttered, "but this thing's a mess." Tylor tightened a bolt, his hands shaking—not from fear of the machine, but from the dreams Kayla had started sharing: a city in ruins, a violet sky, and a figure watching her. "It's like I've been there," she said, her voice uneasy.
Hours later, the machine hummed to life, its dials casting a blue glow. Amaira clapped, but Tylor's chest tightened. The journal warned of instability; one wrong move could trap them. Kayla punched in the coordinates from the journal—a date twenty years ahead. "We need to see what's coming," she said, her eyes fierce. Tylor nodded, gripping Amaira's hand. The attic shimmered, and the world dissolved into blinding light, the machine's pulse echoing like a heartbeat.