The autumn wind rattled the loose shutters of Tylor's Victorian home, now less a mausoleum and more a fragile haven for him and Amaira. At sixteen, Tylor's hazel eyes carried a cautious hope, though guilt still gnawed at him. Amaira, now eight, colored at the kitchen table, her pigtails swaying as she hummed—a melody their mother once sang. Kayla, her denim jacket slung over a chair, leaned against the counter, teasing Tylor about his uneven pancakes. Her green eyes sparkled, but a shadow flickered in them, a restlessness Tylor couldn't place.
A sharp knock interrupted their laughter. Tylor opened the door to find an envelope, unmarked, sealed with wax. Inside, a single line in sharp script: Your father wasn't alone. The truth lies below. His stomach twisted. The basement—still locked, still forbidden—loomed in his mind. Amaira glanced up, her crayon pausing, sensing his tension. Kayla read the note over his shoulder, her breath catching. "The basement lab," she whispered. "We need to know."
Tylor hesitated, the memory of his father's betrayal—a gloved hand silencing Amaira—still raw. But Kayla's hand on his arm, steady and warm, pushed him forward. They pried open the basement door, its hinges screaming, revealing a dusty lab cluttered with papers and a faint hum from the walls. A leather-bound journal lay on a workbench, its pages filled with his mother's precise handwriting: diagrams of "temporal fractures," warnings of reality unraveling, and a name—Chronos Collective. Tylor's heart pounded. His mother hadn't just built the time machine; she'd been part of something bigger.
Amaira slipped beside him, her small fingers tracing a coded diagram. "It's a puzzle," she said, eyes bright. As she decoded it, revealing coordinates to a future date, Tylor felt a chill. The letter wasn't a warning—it was a call to act.