Dedicated to the dichotomy of life. To peace and war. To order and chaos. To misery and madness. To freedom and loneliness. To love and indifference. To reason and faith. And, to Laksh Maheshwari.
He slashed through time like a
hawk through the wind. Lean as a whip, wiry with restless reverberation, he
moved sharp—shoulders hunched under a coat flecked with chronite, glinting like
stars snared in soot. His hands, scarred and quick, cradled a pocket watch: a
battered beast, gears snarling, heavy with years he’d snatched and burned.
Green eyes blazed, fierce, haunted—flicking to horizons he’d torn open, futures
he’d glimpsed, pasts he’d left smoldering. He breathed in jolts, ragged and
thin, a man running on hunger and grit. In a hunt for meaning. He’d carve it
from time’s bones, leave his echo ringing.
She walked the earth like she
would never die. So far, she had been right. Tall, her frame softened by a
strength that hummed "quiet". She stepped her sure-footed boots
scuffed from roads without end. Her hair spilled dark, wild, streaked with gray
that never spread, framing a face etched with calm: high cheeks, eyes deep
brown, warm as soil kissed by dusk. Her hands moved slow, deliberate—rough from
kneading dough, tending wounds, tracing stone. She breathed deep, full, pulling
in the world: salt on the breeze, smoke in the air, the sweet rot of fallen
fruit. Death could knock. It just never did. She lived in the now—each
heartbeat a glow she held close, steady, flickering, alive.
Their first spark flared raw.
Paris, 1793. The guillotine’s blade hissed, a wet chop through the mob’s roar.
He leapt in, boots skidding on blood-slick stone, chasing a journal. He cursed,
English barking through French snarls, and the crowd spun, eyes wild. He
bolted, chest a forge, watch spitting sparks in his fist. An alley twisted. A
tavern flickered. He crashed into her. Her bread basket tipped, her grip
clamped his wrist, firm as oak. “Hide in that barrel by the wall,” she said,
voice low, smooth, cutting the din like a bell. “They’ll stumble past soon.”
He froze, sweat stinging, her
calm a slap to his frenzy. “Who are you to order me around?” he snarled,
journal crushed to his ribs, breath a ragged saw.
“Just a woman with some bread
and a hunch,” she said, brushing flour from her sleeve, her brown eyes locking
his green. He ducked, waited, the mob’s shouts fading. He leapt, was gone. But
her face... high, unbowed—stuck like ash in his throat, a burr he couldn’t
shake.
Time whirled. Constantinople,
1455. Cannons thundered, walls split, and the city wept dust. He slipped a
under tent, air thick with blood and groans, hunting a gear laced with
chronite. There she was. Kneeling in the muck, her hands red, stitching a
soldier’s gash. Same hair. Same eyes. Untouched by centuries. He stopped,
breath snagged, watch trembling. “You,” he rasped, green eyes wide. “Paris. How?”
She looked up, brow creasing,
hands pausing on the thread. “Paris? I see...” taking a moment to realize
unspoken words. “I’ve wandered there, sure but I saw you first in a burning
village—flames high, you running through,” she said, her tone even, searching.
“That was long ago. You don’t stay, do you?”
“You don’t age,” he said,
stepping back, voice tight. “What are you—something endless?”
“I’m alive, that’s what I know.
Alive through more seasons than I can tally,” she replied, wiping the blood on
her skirt, gaze steady. “And you’re a gust that keeps blowing in.” He snatched
the gear, leapt. Her words sank, a weight in his gut. She didn’t chase time.
She stood firm in its flood.
Their paths brushed again,
rare, uncalled. Bombay, 1880. The market sang—cumin bit the air, voices wove
tight. He crept a vault, palms slick, lifting a sextant warped by time’s hand.
Below, she bartered, her laugh a light breeze, saffron dusting her fingers like
the Sun. She glanced up as he slipped past, a shadow with a prize.
Spain, 1936. War gnawed the
hills, gunfire a jagged pulse. He raided a stash, boots crunching glass, a
chronal shard cold in his grip. She sat near, pouring wine for a weary farmer,
her hum low against the blasts. Her brown eyes caught his green for a heartbeat.
A rune on his watch—etched in a stone she had once touched—sang faint, pulling
him across time and space to where she’d be. He didn’t know its pull. She
didn’t either.
Florence, 1506. Dust hung
thick, hammers rang on marble. He slipped through a workshop, chasing a lens
carved with time’s secrets, Leonardo’s hands too slow to guard it. The air
smelled of chisel and oil, the light slanting gold through cracked shutters. He
moved fast, breath sharp, fingers brushing the lens—cool, heavy with promise.
Outside, she haggled for figs, her voice rolling soft through the clamor, a
basket balanced on her hip. She caught his eye as he fled, lens clutched tight.
“Always taking, never staying,” she called, her tone light but edged, brown
eyes glinting like dusk on water.
“I’m building something—something that lasts beyond this dust and noise,” he shot back, breath sharp, watch ticking fast against his chest. “You just let it all slip through your fingers, don’t you?”
“I hold what’s here—the juice
of this fruit, the heat of this sun, the hum of this street,” she said, biting
a fig, juice staining her lips red, her gaze steady. “You’re running from
what’s real, not towards anything.” He leapt, her words a splinter he couldn’t
pull, her calm a mirror to his storm.
Kyoto, 1701. Lanterns glowed
soft, the air crisp with pine and frost. He crept a temple, snow crunching
underfoot, hunting a scroll—its ink laced with chronite dust, a monk’s
forbidden work. Shadows stretched long, the bell’s toll deep and slow. He slipped
through a hall, breath fogging, fingers brushing the scroll’s edge. She stood
outside, feeding koi in a frozen pond, her coat dusted white, her laugh a puff
of mist as fish nipped her crumbs. “You again,” she said, turning, her voice
warm, rolling like tea poured slow. “What’s this one for?”
“A piece of the
puzzle—something to make time bend my way,” he said, tucking the scroll inside
his coat, green eyes flicking to her hands, steady even in the cold. “You’re
just feeding fish while the world turns.”
“These fish, this ice, this
breath—they’re mine, right now,” she replied, tossing another crumb, her smile
faint, eyes tracing the ripples. “You’re chasing a shadow that’ll never sit
still.” He leapt, her peace was a jab he couldn’t dodge, the scroll’s weight
was a promise in his grip.
Berlin, 1989. The Wall cracked,
dust choked the air, freedom roared raw. He landed amid the chaos, boots
grinding concrete, watch humming fast. He’d come for a chip—a Cold War relic
twisted by time, buried in a guard’s pack. The crowd surged, voices a tide, the
air sharp with smoke and hope. She stood near, handing him a pretzel, steam
curling, her breath slow in the chill. “Why do you keep tearing through like
this?” she asked, her voice warm, flowing like a river over worn stone, her
eyes searching his. “What’s out there that’s worth missing this—this breaking?
This life?”
“Meaning—a name carved deep,
something bigger than me, bigger than this fleeting roar,” he said, biting in,
crumbs dusting his coat, hands jittery with the watch’s pulse. “You’re just
breathing it away, letting it fade into nothing.”
“This moment’s mine—the salt of
this bread, the shout of these people tearing free,” she said, eyes tracing the
crowd, a smile tugging her lips, her fingers brushing his sleeve. “You chase
shadows when the light’s right here, warm and loud.” He leapt, her calm a blade
he couldn’t blunt, the chip a cold weight in his pocket.
Cairo, 1922. The desert bit,
sand swirling hot, the air thick with dust and secrets. He slipped a dig site,
chasing a scarab—gold, chronite-veined, unearthed from a tomb. Torches
flickered, voices hushed, the night heavy with stars. He moved low, breath
shallow, fingers brushing the scarab’s edge—cool, ancient, alive. She sat near,
sketching hieroglyphs on a crate, her pencil scratching soft, her coat dusted
yellow. “Back again,” she said, glancing up, her voice a thread through the
wind. “What’s this one worth?”
“Everything—control, a legacy
that doesn’t crumble like this sand,” he said, tucking the scarab close, green
eyes glinting in the torchlight. “You’re just drawing pictures while time moves
on.”
“I’m here—the grit of this
dust, the weight of this night, the stories in these stones,” she replied, her
sketch sharp, her gaze steady, brown eyes warm against the dark. “You’re
running so fast you don’t even feel it.” He leapt, her words a burr in his
chest, the scarab a pulse against his ribs.
Venice, 2041. Water claimed the
city, lapping stone, algae glowing green in the murk. He landed hard, boots splashing,
hunting a chronal core—his last stab at breaking time’s neck. The air hung wet,
heavy, the sky bruised purple. Buildings leaned, sinking slow, their
reflections trembling. He moved fast, breath sharp, green eyes scanning the
flood. She stood on a bridge, weaving a net from salvaged twine, her coat
patched, hair damp and clinging to her cheeks. “You,” he said, voice rough,
stopping short, watch ticking wild in his fist.
“Always now,” she said, setting
her net down, brown eyes meeting his with a spark, her hands steady despite the
damp. The bridge groaned, wood creaking under their weight. She reached into
her pack, pulled a thin, worn book—its cover stamped with a rune, the same on
his watch, faded but sharp. “I found this in Cairo, after you ran with that
scarab,” she said, her voice low, rising like a tide. “It’s a tally—every place
you’ve hit, every piece you’ve taken, scratched in ink older than me. I’ve been
crossing your shadow too long not to see it.”
He stepped closer, breath
catching, fingers brushing the book’s edge—leather cracked, pages yellow. “That
rune—I lifted it from a Norse ruin in 1120,” he said, voice climbing, green
eyes locked on hers, fierce and wide. “It’s on my watch. It’s why I keep
crashing into you—some thread we didn’t ask for, pulling us tight.”
Her laugh broke, soft and raw,
a sound like wind through dry grass, her hands trembling just a touch. “I
traded for this in 1922—a digger said it came from a thief’s wake, someone who
moved too fast to catch,” she said, her gaze fierce, warm, pulling him in. “I
thought I was just wandering, living my days free and clear. But you’ve been
weaving me into your chaos, haven’t you—all this time?”
The bridge shuddered, wood
splitting, water surging below. He could leap—grab the core, chase his end,
lock time in his grip. But the book’s weight sank deep: every leap he’d made,
she’d felt, her life a quiet echo to his storm, her moments stitched to his
hunt. He dropped the watch into the flood—a splash, a hush, the rune’s hum
fading. “I thought I was running alone, carving my name into the dark,” he
said, low, raw, a grin cracking his face, green eyes softening. “Turns out I’ve
been chasing you—every damn step.”
She tossed the book after it,
pages sinking slow, and stepped to him, boots splashing, her breath fogging
fast. “And I thought I was just living my moments, holding them close, free of
any pull,” she said, her voice a thread tightening, warm with wonder, brown
eyes glinting like embers in the dusk. “But they’ve all been yours too, tied to
your fire, echoing back to me.” The bridge buckled, a groan, a snap. They
fell—water bit, cold, fierce, alive. He swam, grabbed her, hauled them to a
drifting beam, his arm strong around her waist. They clung, soaked, her hand
hot in his, breath fogging wild. The core sank with his watch, his meaning
drowned in the tide. Her now stretched wide, folding him in—steady, flickering,
alive.
They drifted, the city sinking
slow around them, algae glowing faint. He laughed, sharp and free, his green
eyes catching hers. “No more running,” he said, voice rough, warm, a promise
breaking through. “What’s here—what’s now—it’s enough.”
She smiled, her laugh a soft glow, her fingers tightening in his. “It always was,” she said, her voice rolling soft, deep, a flame that wouldn’t fade. “You just didn't have the time to see it.” The water lapped, the night pressed close. His hunt for meaning drowned with the watch; her life in the moment held him fast. Time didn’t flinch—they did, together, alive in the flood, their echoes and embers entwined at last.
Vishal Gupta
26 March 2025
