Tag: books

The wind came early that morning, rising before the sun could warm the frozen soil. It swept across the wide North Dakota plains, carrying the scent of dust, dry grass, and faraway rain that would never reach here.

Ella Larson leaned into it as she stepped off her porch, her coat snapping around her legs like a flag. The horizon stretched endlessly, the fields tawny and shivering under the gray sky. The wind had always been part of her life—sometimes a whisper, a roar—but today it felt like it carried messages she couldn’t quite understand.

She trudged toward the barn, boots crunching over frozen ground. The old red boards rattled and moaned, the roof complaining against every gust. Inside, the horses stamped nervously, manes tangled and eyes wide. She whispered to them, steady and calm, though her own heart was uneasy.

“Easy now, it’s just the wind,” she said, running a hand along a sleek brown neck.

Outside, a tumbleweed bounced across the pasture, chasing its own shadow. The prairie grass bent nearly flat, and the wind howled through the distant power lines, turning them into low, mournful instruments.

Ella paused at the barn door, watching the storm of motion and sound. Something was humbling about it—the way the land gave itself over to the elements without protest. Out here, there was no hiding from the wind; you learned to live with it, to let it sing around your house and whistle through your dreams.

By late afternoon, the sky had darkened to the color of pewter, and the wind began to shift. It wasn’t as sharp now, just restless—like a tired spirit settling after a long day’s wandering.

Ella returned to her porch, the wooden boards creaking beneath her. The plains stretched before her, golden and endless again, the grass slowly straightening. She took a deep breath, the air cool and clean now, and smiled.

On the North Dakota plains, you never really conquer the wind. You just waited for it to pass—and learned to listen to what it had to say while it stayed.

Elliot Crane was no ordinary clockmaker. Hidden behind his workshop in an alley off Regent Street was a machine unlike any other — a brass and glass sphere that hummed like a heartbeat. To the untrained eye, it looked like an unfinished clock. But Elliot knew better. It was his Time Engine.

He had been working on it for forty years, following blueprints left by his late mentor, Professor Halden, who vanished mysteriously one stormy night in 1885. The notes said, “Time is not a line, but a circle — find the right gear, and you can step anywhere upon it.”

One night, as the rain pattered against the windows, Elliot decided it was time. He wound the final gear and stepped inside. The sphere closed around him, gears spinning faster and faster until the room dissolved into light.

When the humming stopped, he stepped out onto the same street — but everything was different. The air smelled cleaner. The buildings towered like glass mountains. And the people carried glowing rectangles in their hands. He had landed in the year 2125.

Elliot wandered, stunned, through the neon-lit city. He marveled at the flying vehicles, the talking machines, and the absence of clocks. Time, it seemed, was now invisible — measured only by devices no one could see. He felt both awe and sadness. His life’s work, the art of clockmaking, had been swallowed by progress.

As he passed a museum, a display caught his eye: “The Lost Clockmaker: The Mysterious Disappearance of Professor Halden, 1885.” There, behind glass, was a photograph of Halden — and beside him stood a young apprentice. Elliot.

Heart pounding, Elliot read the plaque. It claimed Halden had vanished along with his apprentice, leaving behind sketches of a “temporal mechanism.” But that couldn’t be. Elliot was here, now. He looked closer and noticed something else — the date of their disappearance: October 11, 1885 — the same night Halden vanished, and the same night Elliot had left.

Realization struck him. The machine had not merely moved him forward; it had completed the circle. Halden had succeeded in traveling through time — and Elliot had followed, only a century too late.

As the lights of the city reflected off the glass case, Elliot smiled faintly. He understood now. Time wasn’t meant to be conquered — only observed. He returned to his machine, set the dials to 1885, and whispered, “Let’s finish what we started, Professor.”

The sphere closed once more, gears turning in perfect rhythm — the heartbeat of time itself — and Elliot Crane vanished into the circle, leaving behind only the faint ticking of an invisible clock.

The sun had just dipped below the horizon when Max realized he was lost. The golden retriever had been chasing a squirrel through the woods behind his family’s house, his paws flying over fallen leaves, his heart pounding with excitement. But when the squirrel darted up a tree and disappeared, Max turned around—and the house was nowhere in sight.

He barked once, hoping his boy, Liam, would hear him. Only silence answered, except for the rustling of the wind through the trees. Max’s ears drooped. The familiar scent of home was gone, replaced by the sharp smell of pine and damp earth.

Night fell quickly, and Max curled up under a bush, shivering. He dreamed of Liam’s laughter and the warm spot by the fireplace where he liked to nap. When dawn broke, Max stood, shook off the dew, and sniffed the air. He could smell faint traces of something familiar—Liam’s shoes, maybe? His blanket? His tail wagged, just a little.

Max followed the scent through the forest, across a shallow creek, and over a grassy hill. He passed strangers who tried to call him, but Max kept going. He had one mission: get home. His paws were sore, and his belly rumbled with hunger, but every step brought the smell of home a little stronger.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Max crested a hill and saw it—the little white house with the red door. Liam was sitting on the porch steps, his face buried in his hands.

Max barked with every ounce of energy left in him and bolted down the hill. Liam looked up, his eyes wide, then broke into a run.

“Max!” he shouted.

When they met in the yard, Liam wrapped his arms around Max’s neck, burying his face in his fur. Max’s tail thumped so hard it kicked up dust.

“You found your way home,” Liam whispered, and Max licked the tears from his boy’s cheeks.

That night, Max lay in his spot by the fire, full, warm, and safe. The world outside could be big and scary, but Max knew one thing for sure—he could always find his way back to the ones who loved him most.

The whirring of gears and a sudden whoosh of displaced air marked Dr. Lena Morano’s arrival. Dust swirled around her boots as the shimmer of the temporal rift vanished behind her. She blinked, adjusting her optical implants. The coordinates were perfect—Rome, 58 BCE.

The sun was high, casting golden light over a bustling forum. Merchants shouted in Latin, cloaked senators strolled in heated debate, and slaves hurried with amphorae. Lena grinned beneath her cloak. Her translator chip hummed softly, catching the cadence of the ancient tongue.

She’d studied this moment for years. Her mission: observe the early orations of a young Julius Caesar. But time, as always, had other plans.

Within minutes, she’d attracted attention. Not for her tech—hidden under folds of coarse linen—but for her eyes. They shimmered faintly, reflecting data streams only she could see.

A boy with curly hair and a mischievous smile approached. “Are you a Vestal? Or a goddess, perhaps?”

Lena chuckled. “Neither. Just a traveler.”

The boy tilted his head. “You speak oddly. Where is your home?”

“Far from here,” she replied. “And far from now.”

He frowned but smiled again. “Come. You must see the races. I’ll show you the best view.”

Intrigued, she followed him through the labyrinthine streets to the Circus Maximus. The roar of the crowd rose like thunder as chariots blurred past. Lena’s HUD flickered—anomalies detected. One of the racers shouldn’t be here.

Zooming in, she spotted a medallion glinting around a driver’s neck—etched with binary code. Another time traveler.

She cursed softly. Her cover was blown.

As the chariot rounded a bend, the driver locked eyes with her. He smirked, tapped his medallion, and vanished in a flash of blue light. The crowd gasped, calling it a miracle of the gods.

Lena knew better. The chase was on.

Before she could leave, the boy tugged her sleeve. “Will you return, traveler?”

She smiled sadly. “Maybe. Or maybe I already have.”

With that, she tapped her wrist console. Rome faded in a blur of circuits and laurel leaves.

The city would remember her not by name—but in whispered myths of a silver-eyed goddess who walked among emperors.