Three Short Stories About the Trauma of the Missing Timeline

1. The Alarm Clock Rings Wrong

Elisa got up, as she did every morning. The sun shone through the cracked blinds of her old Berlin apartment. Her phone displayed:
Tuesday, August 5, 2025 AD

But her mirror said something different.
A flickering text scrolled along the bottom, etched in like an old holographic recording:
"Solar Day 7, Cycle 81, Year 5000 RA – Temporal Zone: Radiant Sector."

Elisa flinched. Again.
For weeks, things had been flickering. Streetlights jumped between gaslight and neon. The subway announcements switched from German to a strangely clattering Old Egyptian. And people? Sometimes they spoke in their dreams with different voices.

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She went to work. No one talked about it. Everyone felt it.
Time... was no longer certain.
She felt as if she were living in a calendar that belonged to no one anymore.
And sometimes, in quiet moments, she remembered a childhood she had never had –

in the glass city of Re-Hem, on the sunlit side of Antarctica. (Note: WTF: Total crystalline methamphetamine consumption on an orbital base. -Test subjects for bio-space quantum transfer?)

2. The Archivist and the Clock

Archivist Thalen Mur closed the Chrono-Cabinet. “Damaged again,” he muttered. “The old time modules jump back to 2025 as soon as you synchronize them to 5000 A.R.”

He worked at the Timeline Consulate of Sector Oris, responsible for maintaining the memory tapes of those who had survived from the pre-Ra era. But the problem wasn't the technology. It was the trauma.

Those who existed in both timelines—like flickering shadows between the time planes—began to confuse what was real. One man said he had given birth to his daughter in 1999, but she lived on an orbital ship in the sun, born in 4932 A.R. A woman insisted that her grandmother had met Jesus. A child said he couldn't decide whether he had drawn dinosaurs or talked to them.

Thalen often wondered: Was it still archiving or already soul preservation?

3. The Edge Protocol

“You are standing on the edge, Mayra,” said the old Chronomancer. Mayra nodded. She had made the mistake. She had deleted her Chrono ID. Because she thought she was just a 2025er, simply born in the digital age, with bread, rent, and streaming services. But then… Then the rain started moving backwards. The doors closed before the bang. And a shadow emerged from an obelisk in the museum, calling her "Solar Daughter of Ra's Last Line." Ever since then, she felt wrong in every second. Not minutes. Not days. It was as if her heart lived in the year 5000 AD, while her body was still trapped in 2025. She stood there, on the brink of reality, and had to choose: Would she remember the past—or live the future?

If you like, I can expand one of the stories or combine them into a novel draft. Or we can develop a fictional Chronology Security Protocol—how to protect people who live in more than one time.

Pigs Line, Pigeons Line. The Death Line of Amphetamine