The world snapped back into focus with a jolt, the attic's dusty air replaced by a gritty wind that stung Tylor's face. He stumbled, his knees sinking into ashen dirt, Amaira's small hand still clutched in his. Kayla landed beside them, her dark hair whipping across her face as she shielded her eyes against a bruised violet sky. The familiar oaks and weathered Victorian of their street were gone, replaced by a wasteland of crumbled buildings, their skeletal remains clawing at the horizon like broken fingers. The air reeked of rust and smoke, thick with a silence that pressed against Tylor's chest.
"Where are we?" Amaira whispered, her pigtails limp, her hazel eyes wide as she clung to Tylor's arm. The time machine's hum had faded, leaving only the eerie stillness of this place—October 7, 2045, if the journal's coordinates were right.
Kayla scanned the ruins, her green eyes sharp but shaken. "This is it," she said, her voice low, almost reverent. "The city from my dreams. The violet sky, the broken buildings… it's real." Her hand tightened on the journal, still tucked under her arm, as if it could anchor her to the present they'd left behind.
Tylor's stomach twisted. The journal had warned of temporal fractures, rips in reality caused by the time machine's misuse. Had their jump—his choice to follow the coordinates—done this? The guilt he'd carried since Amaira's disappearance two years ago flared, a familiar ache. "This can't be our fault," he muttered, but the words felt hollow.
A low hum broke the silence, growing louder, mechanical. Tylor's head snapped up. A sleek, black drone hovered over a shattered rooftop, its red eye scanning the streets below. "Hide!" he hissed, pulling Amaira and Kayla behind a pile of rubble. The drone's beam swept past, its cold, metallic voice echoing: "Time trespassers will be detained by order of the Chronarch."
Amaira's breath hitched, her small body trembling against Tylor's side. "Who's the Chronarch?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"I don't know," Tylor whispered, his heart pounding. The journal hadn't mentioned a Chronarch, but the name sent a chill through him, like a shadow he couldn't place. Kayla's eyes met his, her expression a mix of fear and determination, the same fire she'd shown when she vowed to help find Amaira two years ago.
Before they could move, a hand grabbed Tylor's shoulder, yanking him back. He spun, fists raised, only to face a girl—maybe eighteen, with cropped blonde hair and a scar slicing across her cheek. Her gray eyes were sharp, her voice low and urgent. "Move, now, or that drone'll tag you." She gestured to a narrow alley, her patched jacket blending with the ash-covered ruins.
"Who are you?" Kayla demanded, stepping protectively in front of Amaira.
"Lila," the girl said, her gaze flicking to the drone circling closer. "Scavenger. You're not from here, and that makes you targets. Follow me if you want to live." She didn't wait for an answer, darting into the alley with a limping gait.
Tylor hesitated, his distrust warring with the drone's approaching hum. Kayla nodded, her hand brushing his. "We don't have a choice." They ran, Amaira's sneakers crunching on broken glass, the drone's beam grazing the rubble behind them.
Lila led them through a maze of collapsed buildings to a hidden trapdoor beneath a rusted car frame. Inside, a dim tunnel stretched downward, lit by flickering solar lamps. "Welcome to the edge of nowhere," Lila said, her voice dry but edged with exhaustion. "The Chronarch's got eyes everywhere, but his drones don't reach here. Yet."
The tunnel opened into a small cavern, cluttered with crates and makeshift beds. A handful of survivors—gaunt, wary faces—glanced up, their whispers fading. Lila gestured to a corner. "Sit. You're not prisoners, but you're not safe either. The Chronarch hunts people like you—ones who don't belong in this time."
Tylor's throat tightened. "How do you know we don't belong?"
Lila's scar twitched as she smirked. "Your clothes aren't patched with ten years of dirt, and your sister's too clean for a wastelander. Plus, you've got that look—hope. Nobody here has that anymore."
Amaira clutched Tylor's hand, her eyes scanning the cavern. "Is this our town?" she asked, her voice small but steady.
"Was," Lila said, her gaze softening. "The Chronarch's tech fractured everything. Time's broken here. Streets vanish, people disappear. He says he's fixing it, but all he does is control."
Kayla's fingers tightened on the journal, her face pale. "This is what I saw," she murmured. "The city, the sky… it's all wrong." She looked at Tylor, her eyes fierce. "We caused this, didn't we? The machine, our jump…"
"No," Tylor said, his voice sharper than he meant. He couldn't bear the thought, not after failing Amaira once before. "The journal said the fractures started before us. My mom's work, the Chronos Collective—they did this." But doubt gnawed at him, the weight of his choices heavier than ever.
Lila leaned closer, her voice low. "You know about the Collective?" Her eyes flicked to the journal in Kayla's hands. "You're not just trespassers, are you?"
Before Tylor could answer, a distant explosion shook the cavern, dust raining from the ceiling. Lila cursed, grabbing a battered radio. "They found us," she said, her scar stark against her flushed skin. "The Chronarch's enforcers. Move, or you're ash."
Tylor pulled Amaira close, his heart racing. Kayla's hand found his, her touch a flicker of warmth in the cold. As they followed Lila into the dark, Tylor couldn't shake the feeling that the Chronarch's shadow was closer than they knew—and that the truth about his mother's work would either save them or break them apart.