In the soft glow of the ethereal light, the Great Mother stood before the small figure, her presence warming the cold void around them. Her eyes, deep pools of wisdom, looked down upon him with a mixture of hope and tenderness.
"It is time for you to journey to Time," she said, her voice like a gentle breeze through the stillness of space. "You must seek him out, for he holds the key to your peace. Listen closely, my child."
The boy gazed up at her, his childlike features framed by shimmering light. He nodded, the weight of her words settling in his heart. "Will you be there?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper, tinged with uncertainty.
"I will always be with you," she assured him, extending her hand. A shimmering gate materialized behind her, crackling with energy, its edges flowing like liquid stars. "Step through, and you will find what you seek. Trust in the tale that unfolds."
With a final, reassuring smile from the Great Mother, he took a deep breath and stepped toward the gate. As he crossed the threshold, the world around him dissolved into a kaleidoscope of light, swirling like the remnants of forgotten dreams.
The moment he emerged, he found himself in the boundless expanse of space, floating before the majestic figure of Time, who awaited him with a knowing gaze. "Is someone there?" the boy called out, his voice echoing through the vastness.
"I am everywhere," Time replied, the words weaving through the fabric of existence itself. Time's voice did not come from a mouth, nor from any single direction. It arrived like memory—sudden, intimate, unavoidable.
The boy turned slowly, his small form drifting in the endless expanse. He was shaped like a child, yet not flesh—his body was woven entirely of light, soft and radiant. Fine cracks traced his limbs and chest like fractures in porcelain, and from them spilled a slow, constant fall of white dust, glowing faintly as it scattered into the void.
Around him.
Nebulae bloomed like vast celestial gardens, their colors flowing—violet, gold, deep blue—breathing as though alive. Rivers of starlight curved gently through the darkness. Distant galaxies turned in quiet harmony, their spiral arms scattering light like petals cast upon an unseen wind. Every star pulsed with a patient rhythm, as if the universe itself were listening.
Before the boy, space bent—not inward, but around something immense.
From the distortion emerged the Watcher.
in the form of a wheel—vast beyond measure—rotating slowly in the fabric of existence. Countless rings turned within rings, each etched with moments instead of markings: births flaring into being, lives unfolding, endings dissolving into beginnings. The wheel did not grind or roar; it turned in perfect silence, and yet its motion carried the weight of eternity.
The boy shrank back instinctively, clutching his glowing hands to his chest. More white dust drifted from the cracks in him, trailing like falling snow.
"Are… are you Time?" he asked.
The wheel turned, and with that motion, ages passed.
"I am what moves when nothing else does," the voice replied, gentle and immeasurable."I am what remains when all things change , I am the one who remember when everyone forget. Yes, little one—I am Time."
The boy gazed upon the wheel with wide, searching eyes. There was no fear in him—only a quiet sadness he did not yet understand.
"The Great Mother said you would help me," he murmured. "She said you have the key to my peace."
The wheel slowed.
Then, impossibly, it lowered itself—its vastness drawing nearer, its motion softening so the boy could bear it.
"She sent you to be raised," Time said. "Not taught. Not repaired. Raised."
The boy tilted his head, light shifting gently across his fractured form.
"Raised… like a story?"
If Time could smile, he did so in the turning of his rings.
"Yes," he said. "Like a story told slowly. At the right pace. One chapter at a time."
The boy hesitated. More dust slipped from the cracks in him, dissolving into the stars.
"Why does my heart hurt," he asked quietly, "if I don't remember why?"
The wheel's rotation softened further. The surrounding stars dimmed, as though the universe itself offered privacy. Time extended his presence—not to touch, but to hover near the boy's chest.
Within the light of the child, echoes stirred: banners collapsing into ash, blades shattering, voices crying out names that no longer existed.
"Because pain does not always live in memory," Time said."Sometimes it lives in the shape of the soul."
The boy swallowed.
"Am I broken?"
The wheel turned once—slow, deliberate.
"No," Time answered. "You are incomplete."
Silence followed—not empty, but full, like the pause before a lullaby. Stardust drifted. Galaxies turned. The white dust from the boy's cracks fell gently, catching the light of distant suns.
Then Time extended himself—not a hand, but a path formed by the turning of his rings.
"Come," he said. "I will tell you stories. Of courage. Of loss. Of choices and their weight. Not so you remember who you were—but so you learn who you can be."
The boy looked at the turning wheel. Then, slowly, he drifted closer, stepping into the rhythm of Time itself.
And for the first time since his ascent, the ache within him did not vanish—
—but it eased, just enough for him to breathe.
Far away, beyond Time and tale, the Great Mother watched.
And she smiled.