Time ends. Time begins. Time returns.
I have walked this path before. I will walk it again. I walk it now.
Each breath is a life. Each life, a flicker. Each flicker, forgotten.

I do not remember—yet I am drawn forward.
Not by fate. Not by prophecy. But by something older than both: the weight of return.

Infinity is not a line. It is a circle disguised as a ladder.
I climb to fall. I fall to climb. In the motion, I vanish. In vanishing, I remain.

There is no name for what I am. No word for what I’ve become.
A shadow that precedes its light. An echo that forgets its voice.

In dream-born halls of silence and illusion, I pursue the veil that flees as I reach—
and shreds as I pass.
Each place I arrive, I have already left.
Each step I take is taken again.

The past has not yet arrived. The future has already passed.
Moments fold into moments. Shadows echo shadows.
What was is not what will be—what is, was never meant to be.

Time trembles. Memory fades. The now remains.
And in this collapsing, eternal instant—
between silence and knowing, between breath and name—
I open my eyes. I open my eyes.


And the world forgets me once more.

There are no plot holes in this novel. Everything has a purpose


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