The Turning of the Hourglass

A David Sands Competition story by Snezhina Gulubova

Nov 14, 2025

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

The Turning of the Hourglass by Snezhina Gulubova

The hourglass kept spinning frantically.

It wasn’t supposed to do that.

It should have turned just a few times, settled on the right date and time, then stilled – beginning the countdown. Only then could I begin the journey. I pictured the sand slipping through the centre, grain by grain. That span – no longer, no less – was the time I had to complete the mission. If I failed, I would vanish into nothingness, like all the others.

I am the last of the time warriors – Aeon Veers – or so people call us. We are an order based on Titan, tasked with protecting life across distant worlds. The ancient hourglass, sealed with the sands of time, is known as Mór-Kala to the few across the universe who are aware of its existence. Created by ancient mystic-scientists, the hourglass is powered by a compressed black hole which bends space-time, allowing us to move across it. The sand which transports us is stardust – the tiniest ingredient of creation which makes up the entire universe. Ancient enchantments in a language long forgotten keep the black hole from swallowing us as we transport ourselves.

Four meters tall and almost two meters wide, Mór-Kala is hidden in deep underground chambers bellow Titan’s ice caps. It is the only device in the universe which allows us to move through space-time to carry out what the archives call “the great missions.” We save visionary leaders, rescue scientists, prevent the collapse of societies. Once, we were twelve – chosen from across the Virgo Supercluster, we were made immune to age, but not to death. And now, only I remain.

Aeon Veers are required to leave missions’ times no later than twelve minutes before the precise moment of the event we are meant to change. That is usually when the last grain of sand begins its journey through the hourglass which activates a light in the pocket-sized transporters we carry. From that moment, we have exactly thirty seconds to press the return button and make our way back to Titan.

Miss the window, and we are lost – unable to rejoin the sands of the hourglass. We don’t belong to the era we are working in, and the timeline knows it. It defends itself. We vanish – not dead, just erased, as if we were never there at all.

That was the fate of my brothers and sisters who tried to save Atlantis. And Babylon. Others from my order were hunted down and killed by those who would do anything to preserve the past.

I wondered what fate awaited me at the end of this mission. I have learned how to save visionaries from execution, how to rescue artefacts before they are destroyed. But this? Changing the course of an entire planet’s history? Even I had never pushed the limits this far.

The hourglass spun faster. I had never seen it so indecisive. My nerves clawed at me. All around me, the Council of Elders watched in silence, their faces tense, their eyes fixed on the swirling sands.

The Council forms the core of our order’s structure – a constellation of scientists, historians, anthropologists, artists, and linguists. They study planets, peoples, and civilisations, preserving knowledge from the earliest days of this world cycle. Their archive is the most detailed library in the known universe, a vast and intricate map of our evolution, meticulously organised to guide us in our missions.

Why was it taking so long for Mór-Kala, the great hourglass, to pinpoint the right moment to send me back to prevent The Exchange?

My name is Rogelius, and I’ve been chose to go back in time to stop the annihilation of Earth. In 2052, multiple global powers pressed the red button simultaneously, unleashing a nuclear war that obliterated the planet and decimated its population. That moment became known as The Exchange – a tipping point where humanity, driven by greed and hubris, chose power over survival and erased its past, present, and future in a single act of destruction.

Those who didn’t perish in the initial blasts soon died from the poisoned air and water, or in brutal street wars over the last scraps of food and medicine. Earth – once the most vibrant, life-rich planet in the solar system – became a barren wasteland within two years. The ultra-rich, thinking themselves above fate, fled to space in hastily built ships. They never made it. Their vessels, unequipped for deep space, were pulverised by asteroids long before reaching their imagined sanctuary on the Moon.

It was then that the Elders decided I must go back to change history – to avert catastrophe before everything was lost forever.

People often say that history should not be altered, that tampering with time fractures the timeline. But that’s not quite true. Altering history doesn’t break time; it creates a parallel one – an alternate timeline. And if the conditions are right – if there’s minimal overlap of individual existence – those timelines can eventually merge. With all human life on Earth extinguished, the duplication risk was minimal. At least, that was the theory. That was the logic behind my mission.

The hourglass finally stopped.

Before anyone could even react, it swallowed me. I felt the pull of its sands, the shift in gravity, the disintegration of matter as I was hurled towards the chosen moment.

The last thing I saw before my departure was the expression on the Elders’ faces – bewilderment, and something else. Worry.

Something wasn’t right.

But it was too late now.

I braced myself for arrival.

I landed in the middle of what appeared to be a forest. Trees towered above me, their leaves whispering in the breeze, but something about the air felt… off.

I pulled out my locator and checked the coordinates: 51.7251° N, 0.8092° W.

Good. I was on the right planet and had landed near a city – exactly as planned.

In preparation for the mission, I had studied Earth extensively: its clothing, transport systems, food, customs. Blending in would be critical. A single misstep could alter the timeline in unintended ways.

Slipping out of my sand-coloured hooded robe – the ceremonial garb worn by Aeon Veers for millennia – I folded it carefully and tucked it away. No sense in being mistaken for a lunatic or a prophet. Earth had no patience for either.

I began walking, taking in the scenery. The ground was uneven, littered with the remnants of decaying leaves and the faint gleam of man-made debris. The records had warned me about this – how air and water pollution had steadily worsened for decades. How humanity, in its greed, had overexploited its natural resources, triggering devastating natural disasters – earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions.

The population had grown sicker, weaker, more isolated – disconnected from its original source: nature itself.

What struck me most was the irony.

This planet, rich with life and breathtaking beauty, had become a prison of its own making. People chose to live in concrete boxes, tethered to glowing screens, instead of walking freely beneath the sky. They created synthetic organs to delay their bodily decay, and worshipped artificial perfection through routine surgeries. Overconsumption was not discouraged – it was celebrated.

I inhaled deeply.

Beneath the pine and soil, I could taste the chemicals in the air. I could feel the quiet ache of a dying forest. Nature was still fighting – but the wounds ran deep.

Shaking off my thoughts, I forced my mind to focus on the task ahead. The burning questions returned, louder now, pressing against the walls of my skull.

How do I reach the world’s leaders?

What do I say to them?

Do I simply disable their nuclear systems?

But that wasn’t how our missions worked. We were trained to interfere as little as possible – nudging, not toppling. I couldn’t just dismantle every global arsenal. My purpose wasn’t destruction, but persuasion. The goal was to guide humanity toward recognising the urgency of their own self-destruction. Not just to change the past, but to shift perception – so that people, ideally, would choose to change.

From my satchel, I retrieved the documents I had prepared: a passport with multiple international visas under my assumed identity, several bank cards, and an international driving license. There was also a sleek mobile device that was, in reality, a satellite communicator disguised as a phone, already synced to local networks and set to follow my coordinates anywhere on the planet.

I powered it on. It connected instantly.

Then I checked the date.

What?

My heart lurched.

How?

And in that moment, I understood the bewildered looks on the faces of the Elders.
They knew.

Panic prickled under my skin. I hadn’t been sent back with a buffer of months, or even weeks, to prepare. I had landed at the exact start of the multilateral security and economic summit – the very negotiations that would spiral into The Exchange.

I had ten days to stop the most catastrophic event in human history.

Anxiety surged. This mission was already hanging by a thread.

I had trained for decades. I knew how to slow time with a single breath. But even so – for someone who lives outside of time, I suddenly had none.

There was no room for hesitation now.

I started walking, urgency pulsing through every step.

SUMMIT

“Welcome to Davos, Professor Greenwood. We are delighted to have such a distinguished scientist joining our World Economic Development and Security talks.

Here is your biometric pass. Bonne journée!”

Professor Martin Greenwood. That was the identity I had assumed for this mission. My cover was airtight – crafted with precision by my order, complete with a fabricated career as an environmental scientist and an extensive body of published research carefully planted into global databases.

Environmental scientists were often dismissed – sarcastically labelled “tree-huggers” – and rarely taken seriously in high-level negotiations. They were usually token invitees at summits like this, decorative proof that world leaders and corporate executives cared about the planet they were quietly destroying in pursuit of profit.

That made me useful. And more importantly, unthreatening.

I was exactly the kind of person they wanted on their panels, in their campaigns, featured in their glossy leaflets. Everyone needed a tree-hugger. They just didn’t want to listen to one.

But that gave me proximity.

And proximity was power.

It was the only way to stay close to the decision-makers – those who, in just over a week, would sign the documents, press the buttons, and ignite The Exchange.

Day One:

I had noticed the commotion outside the summit centre during yesterday’s opening, but paid it little mind at the time. Today, however, it seized both my eye and ear.

Twelve women danced and sang in a candlelit circle. They were of all colours and sizes, each dressed in her own distinct style. Around them, posters pointed in every direction:

“Dismantle and eliminate all nuclear weapons”

“End the era of greed”

“Honour your eternal bond with Mother Earth”

“Defend and preserve our planet”

“You are human – more than a machine”

I was drawn in – not just by their words, but by the sheer beauty of the sound. Using only their voices and hands, they created a rich tapestry of rhythm – chanting, humming, softly clapping – crafting music out of air and will alone.

Then the lyrics reached me:

“Destruction draws near.

And you are rushing to its gate.

Stop now – our voices hear

Before it is too late.

When the sky burns red,

Darkness will swallow the day

Poisoned Earth your final bed

As life slips silently away”

The words stopped me cold.

Could they somehow know about the coming nuclear exchange that would end all life on Earth?

Throughout human history, there had always been those who foresaw destruction – visionaries, prophets, outcasts. Earth had birthed vast religious and philosophical traditions, but they were more often tools of control, used to silence the outspoken, than vessels of change and liberation.

Yet these women seemed different. There was no anger, no spectacle – only quiet conviction. They moved with grace and certainty, tending their signs, holding space in silence between verses.

And then I saw her.

The thirteenth woman.

She stood at the far edge of the circle beside a sign that read: “Speak to us before it is too late to save the world!”

She looked young, but her long silver hair and piercing brown eyes gave her an ageless presence. Her gaze locked onto mine with quiet power. She nodded once, her smile knowing.

It unsettled me.

I dismissed the thought immediately. Earth had no representation on any cosmic council, no place in interstellar assemblies. Humanity still questioned whether other intelligent life even existed – clinging to the illusion of supremacy, unaware they were among the least advanced of all civilisations.

For her to know about the Aeon Veers – let alone recognise me – wasn’t just unlikely. It was impossible.

Still, I hurried through the summit gates, her eyes following me like a shadow I could not shake.

Day Three:

“We are in full support of the new satellite surveillance programme and the militarisation of leading global corporations,” declared Frank Donaldson, President of the North American Security Council (NASC). “It is time for governments and corporations to collaborate to ensure the smooth running of our societies. With a surveillance system operated entirely by Artificial Intelligence, we guarantee maximum productivity and eliminate the risk of human error.”

“What about human judgment and discretion? What about discernment?” I asked.

“There is no room for sentiment or common sense when it comes to security,” he replied coldly. “We must uphold the rule of law and ensure the continuous advancement of civilisation.”

The roundtable was ending. I couldn’t wait to speak with Donaldson alone.

He approached without hesitation. “Professor,” he said, “why are you here, trying to stall the forward march of civilisation? Shouldn’t you be working with bionics companies to perfect the human genome?”

“Good afternoon, President –” I began, but he cut me off with a wave.

“No need for pleasantries. We don’t waste time in the running of society. What do you truly want?”

“I want to ensure humanity’s survival,” I replied instinctively – then quickly amended myself. “Its true progress. That means protecting nature from nuclear devastation. Ensuring humans are free to express themselves without being governed by AI-derived statistics and automated surveillance.”

“There is no progress in regression, Professor. We are the masters of nature – we bend it to our will,” Donaldson snapped. “We can now predict and mitigate disasters, extract and control resources, and we are nearing the full realisation of bionic human bodies.”

In silence, I pulled out the compiled data from the Council’s library – scientific reports from Earth itself, collected over decades, exposing the full scope of environmental collapse, technological overreach, and the moral erosion pushing humanity to the edge.

I laid it out before him – evidence of widespread devastation caused by mining and fuel extraction; destabilised weather systems driven by reckless climate manipulation; nuclear contamination; and a human genome weakened by dependence on synthetic organs and pharmaceuticals.

I highlighted the surge in mental health disorders born of growing isolation and the breakdown of genuine human connection. I even presented records of AI surveillance failures – cases where innocent people had been falsely accused, detained, or killed by automated systems.

Donaldson barely glanced at the reports. He pushed them away and walked out without a word.

In that moment, I knew: humanity was in denial – incapable, or perhaps unwilling, to face the consequences of its own designs.

Leaving the building at dusk, weighed down by disappointment, I saw her again.

The silver-haired woman.

She stood outside the gates, holding a sign that read: “Love and nurture can never be coded or manufactured!”

Raising a microphone, she began to speak – not loudly, but with a clear, unwavering voice.

“Have you forgotten history?” she asked. “When greed and power consume humanity, the planet restores balance through catastrophe.

Forsaking the utterances of our souls, reshaping our bodies by machine logic – we deny who we are, and surrender our immortality.

Why is AI now issuing fines, rendering verdicts, monitoring our every move? Have we no reason left? Have our minds gone stale?”

Passers-by slowed, drawn in by her presence. A crowd formed. Some joined her chant, others hummed or sang. Candles passed from hand to hand, lit one by one by the other women.

I stood motionless, transfixed.

From a summit window above, I saw a figure move – a woman in a black suit, face twisted with panic. She snatched up a phone, gesturing furiously. Moments later, security spilled out, dispersing the crowd and scattering the circle of women.

Even in the chaos, the silver-haired woman walked slowly, untouched by panic. Insults hurled at her went unanswered. She moved with quiet resistance, calm and composed.

Just before she turned the corner, she looked back – locking eyes with me once more.

And smiled.

That smile stayed with me through the night – an anchor in the storm.

Day Five:

“Cosmetic surgeries should become compulsory for all children!” shouted the woman with the black suit – the same one who had called security on the protesters two days earlier. Georgia Antimony, Chief Executive of World Beauty, the dominant global cosmetics corporation, stood at the podium, radiating unnerving confidence.

“We must build a planet of beautiful people. There is no excuse for sore eyes – not when we can live surrounded by aesthetic perfection. And AI is the most efficient tool to determine the ideal look for each of us – how we can reach the pinnacle of beauty.”

She paused, her tone tightening.

“You have all seen the witches outside the summit gates,” she added, venom in her voice. “One of them is pregnant.”

A ripple of discomfort moved through the audience.

“She is dancing in the streets as if possessed – when she should be confined to a clinic, drip-fed with nutrients, protected from disease.”

A hush fell over the hall.

“Another one is breastfeeding – in public! Feeding her child unfortified milk, exposing it to the filth of the streets, flaunting this primitive act as though it were natural!”

She leaned forward dramatically.

“What could be more sickening – more threatening to the perfect society we are building – than these women and their backward practices?”

Murmurs of agreement began to swell.

“We must save these children from the ignorance of their own mothers! These women burn wax and herbs like savages – undermining the hard-won progress of our civilisation!”

Her voice now boomed across the room.

“No, my friends. This cannot continue. We must act – now.”

The room stirred with growing unrest.

I rose. “Shouldn’t we allow freedom of choice – in how we raise our children and live our lives?”

She cut me off with cool condescension.

“There can be no freedom that allows ignorance and savagery to persist and threaten our future,” she said with icy poise. “That is why corporations like World Beauty must influence policy – and be authorised to raise official armies.”

I stood, ready to object again.

“There’s no need for another lecture, Professor Greenwood,” she said, stressing my title with mocking precision. “You, of all people, should understand the value of corporate secrets. World Beauty has the right to defend its data, facilities, and personnel by any means necessary, including a targeted nuclear arsenal.”

Her eyes gleamed with cruelty.

“Beauty must be protected. That is our company’s mission – to create a more harmonious world for all to enjoy. Isn’t that the very purpose of life?” she asked, staring me down like a serpent poised to strike.

“And most importantly,” she added, chin lifted, voice triumphant, “we are the only organisation in the universe capable of prolonging life – and soon, achieving immortality.”

The room erupted in thunderous applause. Everyone stood.

It took everything in me not to speak the truth – that Earth was one of the most primitive planets in the known universe. That immortality doesn’t exist. That life has meaning because death makes room for renewal – and that the soul needs death to continue its journey, on Earth or beyond.

That day, global security firms and corporate entities were granted free rein to deploy nuclear arsenals and AI surveillance against citizens.

I left the hall, mind spinning. Another day. Another failure. For a brief, bitter moment, I even wondered whether humanity deserved its fate – then shook the thought away.

Outside, I heard the soft chanting again. The women had returned. They were trying to speak with officials, only to be shoved aside by private security. Guards joined in, barking threats as they pushed them back.

I tried to avoid the chaos – until I heard a voice behind me.

“Rough day, Timeless?”

I froze.

Timeless?

I wanted to keep walking – that was protocol. Minimal contact. But I turned around.

There she was. The silver-haired woman.

“My name is Diana,” she said softly, extending her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

I should have walked away. I didn’t.

Instead, I took her warm, steady hand and replied, perhaps a bit too eagerly, “Hello, Diana. My name is Professor Martin Greenwood. It is very nice to meet you, indeed.”

“Oh! The environmental scientist,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “How wonderful.”

I was surprised she knew my name.

“We hope you can still influence the outcome of the summit, Professor Greenwood. Unnecessary body alterations, nuclearised corporations, AI surveillance of independent thinkers – it all goes against nature. Against the well-being of the planet. Don’t you agree?”

I hesitated. “I do.”

“So… what are you going to do about it, Professor?” she asked, her voice gentle, but resolute.

Before I could answer – or ask why she called me Timeless – sirens cut through the air.

Police. Antimony had called them in again.

I turned to say something else – but Diana was gone.

At my feet lay a single rose, red and white petals glistening in the fading light. I picked it up, brought it to my nose, and inhaled its delicate, living scent.

What a strange and enigmatic woman, I thought – a foolish grin spreading across my face.

Day Seven:

My frustrations were growing by the hour.

Despite countless roundtables and bilateral meetings with government officials and corporate executives – armed with rigorous scientific evidence of the looming catastrophe driven by nuclear armament, genetic degradation caused by overmedication, widespread consumption of artificial food and synthetic replacements, and the unchecked dangers of AI surveillance – I had not managed to bring a single organisation to my side.

Instead, I was repeatedly offered increasingly generous compensation to join their companies and act as a greenwashed figurehead – ensuring they appeared compliant with official sustainability policies to secure more funding.

It was my final opportunity to make any meaningful impact at the summit when I heard shouting outside the building. I rushed out.

Antimony was at the gates, screaming at the top of her lungs that the summit had been compromised – claiming the women’s “savagery” was spreading disease.

I watched as officials and corporate elites fled the premises, shielding their faces, eager to escape the perceived contamination.

Diana and her circle had been peacefully demanding a seat at the negotiating table for days. They were dismissed, mocked, and treated as a nuisance. And now, this.

I caught sight of Antimony’s face – sharp, calculated, brimming with malice. It was clear. The collapse of the summit had been orchestrated.

My plan had failed. There was no recovering it now. I had no choice but to initiate the next phase of the mission I’d been quietly developing.

As I turned to return to my car, I stole one last glance at Diana. She stood tall, unwavering, facing down the police without an ounce of fear or hostility. Her presence, as always, was composed but powerful – rooted in conviction.

I longed to stand beside her, to share in her quiet defiance. But I couldn’t. It took all my willpower to tear myself away, to push forward with the new strategy.

While these brave women unknowingly shared my mission, theirs was destined to fail.

Which made my success all the more urgent.

For humanity to survive – for Diana to live – I had to succeed.

IONA

I arrived in Geneva and made my way briskly to the headquarters of the International Organisation for Nuclear Advancement (IONA) – the sole body with access to all nuclear arsenals held by both military states and private corporations, and the authority to approve their use.

Only two days had passed since the summit, and already the world teetered on the brink of nuclear war.

Large corporations were issuing threats against smaller competitors, accusing them of stealing proprietary data and warning of imminent strikes on their facilities. Others were turning their weapons on remote communities, claiming they posed a threat to infrastructure or resource sites.

Governments, meanwhile, had all but abdicated responsibility – handing over decision-making power to corporate boards and security councils.

“Madam, our AI intelligence unit reports that sixteen nuclear sites across Asia have locked their coordinates on us.”

“Sir, it appears NASC has just re-aimed their warheads – directly at our territory.”

Warnings were flooding every screen in the IONA control room – automated threat alerts, urgent approval requests for counterstrikes, and desperate attempts at communication from every corner of the globe.

“President Donaldson,” I called out into the main terminal. His face flickered onto the screen a moment later.

“You’re the only one with the influence to stop this. Please” I begged him. “Call for an immediate global ceasefire. Before it’s too late.”

He sneered. “Are you working for one of our enemies now, Greenwood? Always trying to tie our hands when it comes to defending ourselves?”

The screen cut to black.

I turned to face another official, raising my voice over the growing chaos. “Missiles don’t respect borders. Their impact isn’t contained. You can’t pretend these strikes won’t devastate ecosystems, neighbouring populations, and our entire atmospheric balance!”

A voice shouted back, “Missiles have limited range! You’re exaggerating the fallout. Our request is within regulation!”

Frazzled, I opened my mouth to argue further – but then I heard someone quietly clear their throat.

Turning, I saw one of the front-desk receptionists standing nearby, wringing his hands nervously.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Professor Greenwood,” the receptionist said quietly, “but there’s a woman demanding to see you at the gates. Her name is Diana.”

How does she know I’m here?

As I approached the front entrance, Diana broke into a run. She grasped my hand in both of hers, urgency radiating from her voice and eyes.

“I know what you’re trying to do. Please don’t,” she pleaded, her gaze full of desperate clarity.

I froze, stunned. How could she possibly know what I was planning? And more confusing – why would she want to stop me from saving her… from saving her entire planet?

“I know your mission is to try and save Earth – but it’s too late now,” she said gently, yet firmly. “The planet needs to purge itself of this poison and begin again. It must free the souls trapped in a relentless cycle of violence and greed.”

I flinched. Was she saying humanity deserved to die?

“We tried for years to stop them. It didn’t work. They didn’t listen. If anything, they became more violent, more obsessed with power. They extended their lives with synthetic organs, clinging to failing bodies – their souls trapped.”

She paused, waiting for a reply. But I couldn’t speak. I was dumbstruck.

“I need to go now,” she said at last, her voice cracking. “I have to reach my shelter. Come with me,” she implored softly, reaching once more for my hand.

I looked at her in disbelief – and shoved her hand away.

“You’re mad!” I shouted, turning and running back into the building.

“Remember!” her voice echoed behind me, unwavering and haunting. “This is not the end. It is only the beginning!”

I couldn’t believe it. As the world stood on the edge of nuclear war, this woman – so seemingly grounded and yet so otherworldly – was telling me to let it happen.

Frustration consumed me. The mission was on the brink of collapse. And in that moment, I wanted to blame her - for everything. For Earth’s failures. For my own.

But I knew the truth. My anger was not with her. It was with myself.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about her – the intensity of her gentle touch, the raw plea in her voice, her quiet, impossible hope.

I wanted to lose myself in her presence, to believe – if only for a moment – that this wasn’t the end.

But I had to shake it off.

Time was running out. I turned back to the control hub. I had one last chance to reach those with their fingers on the red buttons – and convince them not to press them.

Twenty-four hours later, I had failed.

Not a single corporation or government had agreed to declare a cessation of hostilities.

Desperation clawed at my chest. With just hours left before The Exchange commenced, I had no choice.

I began disarming the global weapons systems myself.

But I hadn’t anticipated the scale of the task: the vastness of the arsenals, the sheer number of hidden facilities lighting up my screen – each one a death sentence waiting to be triggered.

Exhausted. Frantic. Hopeless.

I glanced at the time. Twenty minutes left.

My stomach clenched. My chest burned with despair.

I felt like a wild animal, trapped – powerless to act, yet unable to give up.

I had never failed a mission before.

And yet… I had failed now.

If only I’d had a few more days.

If only I hadn’t wasted time trying to reason with people who were already lost to power and greed.

I had failed Earth.

I had failed her.

With a heavy heart, I stepped away from the terminal and headed to the rest chamber.

I changed back into my robes and retrieved the hourglass.

Fifteen seconds left.

My hands trembled as I pressed the return button.

I wish I could have saved this world.

I wish I could have seen her… one last time.

A sudden flash.

The sands rose.

And I was pulled back into the flow.

Was I going to vanish into nothingness… or return to Titan?

THE AFTERMATH

I slowly opened my eyes and took in the scenery around me.

Unspoiled greenery stretched in every direction. A stream trickled nearby. Birds chirped. Crickets sang. Sunrays fell gently across my face.

It all felt strangely familiar… yet undeniably different.

Is this the afterlife?

One thing was certain – I was not on Titan.

Where had I landed?

I reached into my robe and pulled out the locator. A wave of relief surged through me. I hadn’t vanished into nothingness, after all.

But when I checked the coordinates, I froze.

51.7251° N, 0.8092° W.

No. That can’t be right.

The exact coordinates where I had arrived on Earth for my failed mission.

I tapped the screen. Recalibrated the device. Checked for malfunctions.

Everything was working perfectly.

Could this be a second chance?

A chance to complete what I could not before?

That had never happened in the history of the Order. Missions, once failed, were considered closed – irreversible chapters in the timeline.

I stood slowly and inhaled deeply, letting the scent of wildflowers and fresh soil flood my senses.

Everything around me was alive and whole.

Looking around, utterly unsure of what I was meant to do, I got to my feet and started down a narrow path, trying to make sense of why I had been sent to Earth again.

I pulled the satellite phone from my pocket and powered it on. No connection.

Strange. There should always be a satellite nearby – always a signal. I decided to walk a bit, hoping to find a connection.

Just over an hour later, the phone began to beep intermittently. It was connecting.

I glanced at the screen – a chill ran through me.

I was on Earth fifty years after The Exchange.

This was the future, not the past where our missions had always taken place. We never went to the future. It was forbidden. Those who attempted it were tried and imprisoned.

My bewilderment grew exponentially. Now, I was truly worried. Something must be wrong with Mór-Kala. Perhaps the black hole had collapsed… or exploded. Maybe the Order had been discovered and attacked. Maybe the Elders were gone.

Or maybe – this was my punishment for failing the mission.

Stranded alone on Earth, left to bear the consequences of allowing humanity to be wiped out.

I was beginning to panic, when I heard a soft voice behind me.

“Hello, Timeless! I have been waiting for you”.

Everything around me fell away as I slowly turned around.

My eyes could hardly believe what they were seeing. She had aged – but still looked strong, her presence undiminished, her face younger than her years. Her eyes retained their childlike twinkle, and her voice still carried the same strength and clarity.

“Diana!”, I whispered.

She nodded with a playful smile and handed me a rose with red and white petals.

“I knew you’d come back – so you could understand,” she said. “Come, join us for some food. No need to change out of your robes,” she added, a twinkle in her eyes.

I stood there, stunned.

Humans had prevented their own destruction.

But how?

“Do you remember our songs, Timeless? They spoke of the end. We always knew that the obsession with power, wealth, and immortality went against the natural rhythms of our planet. And what is nature, if not human nature? We are one and the same – we cannot survive without it.

We saw the signs. But those in power, blinded by greed, refused to listen. So we had to act on our own.

We began preparing twenty years before The Exchange, when we realised the world as we knew it was coming to an end. We still did everything we could to prevent the disaster, but deep down, we knew the odds of changing the minds of those in charge were slim. That’s the cruel irony of human nature – we only realise what we had once it is lost forever.

We formed a global network of those committed to living in harmony with the Earth. We mapped out caves and underground chambers where we could survive the attack and the poisoned months that followed – air, water, soil, all contaminated. We stored seeds, animals, insects, clean water. We used technology to build pipelines to deep aquifers we knew would remain mostly pure.

We established communications centres, linking ourselves to satellites orbiting Earth so we could stay in contact across the globe. We expected some would be destroyed, but many remained functional. Turns out our hackers were better than the government and corporate ones – they were never caught setting up the networks.

We even collected embryos – donated by couples who wanted their children to be part of the new Earth. We carried them in our wombs and gave birth to many, creating families with diverse genetic lines to preserve as much biodiversity as possible.

It felt like an impossible task. Yet we did it.

The hardest part wasn’t preparing for the aftermath of The Exchange – it was letting go of the old world. Accepting that something had to end for something new to begin. Our failure to stop the collapse made us feel powerless, defeated. But we kept trying, right up until the very end.

It was only minutes before The Exchange that I reached my shelter and sealed the hermetic doors.”

I could never have imagined that this powerful, enigmatic being could feel weak – incapable. And if she did, what did that mean for the rest of us?

Sensing my thoughts, she continued, “I saw the same frustration in your eyes at the end of each day of the summit. I knew you felt it too.”

“How did you know who I was?” I asked.

“I didn’t,” Diana said softly. “I still don’t. I don’t even know your name, do I? I doubt it’s really Martin Greenwood.”

“My name is Rogelius,” I said, extending my hand as if we were meeting for the first time.

She took it warmly, her playful smile returning.

“It’s very nice to meet you again, Rogelius.”

“You see, Rogelius” she said, “I have dreams and meditative journeys.

A long time ago, during one of these meditations, I was guided to an underground chamber where cloaked figures stood gathered around an ancient instrument that looked like an hourglass. A man sat cross-legged before it, holding a smaller hourglass in his hand. He was striking – long dreadlocks resting on his shoulders, a strong, solemn face.

I became lost in the depths of his piercing black eyes, where I saw entire worlds created and destroyed, stories beyond the bounds of human imagination. As I bathed in the ocean of his gaze, the man vanished – dissolved into the hourglass. That’s when I knew: he was coming to me.

A few weeks later, I saw him walk into the summit building at Davos. I didn’t know who he was, or where he had come from – but I knew. We were here for the same reason.”

I was mesmerised by Diana’s precise description of the Order and the hourglass. A tingle stirred in my stomach, warmth spreading through my body as I listened to her describe me.

What surprised me most was her ability to follow her soul’s journey beyond the limits of what should be possible for a human.

Even though the soul is free and immortal, it remains bound by the physical laws of the planet where it incarnates. On Earth, the soul travels the shortest distance from its body – its flight path in dreams and meditations constrained, fleeting.

And yet, she had seen beyond.

I had always followed the rules of the Order, guarding its secrets from anyone uninitiated. But with Diana, it felt only right to share the full truth – about Mór-Kala, the Aeon Veers, and our missions.

She listened intently, wonder and curiosity shining in her eyes as she absorbed every word about our lives and travels.

We spoke for hours. And as I told my story, I felt something I had never felt before – a weight lifting from my shoulders. For once, I felt seen and heard. I was free to be myself: Rogelius – not just an Aeon Veer, but a man, a brother, a son, an explorer.

For the first time, I sensed there might be more to existence than missions, Council meetings, and endless studies.

I felt younger – lighter – than the thousands of years I carried within me.

“How are your abilities to see the future so advanced?” I asked Diana.

“They’re not,” she replied, shaking her head gently. “Our souls already hold all the answers – they are part of the original source of creation. When we consciously quiet the noise of our busy minds, we gain access to the past and the future.

We use logic, mathematics, philosophy, history, and science. We attune ourselves to Earth’s rhythms – her heartbeat. When she becomes dangerously unbalanced, we can sense it. That’s how we know when her time has come to cleanse the poison from her womb.”

She paused, then continued with calm reverence.

“Earth is generous. She gave us a new beginning – and in just fifty years, she recovered, returning to a state of pristine beauty. She empowered us – especially women – to carry multiple pregnancies, even into our fifties, and to live longer than the humanity that had grown obsessed with synthetic organs, cosmetic enhancements, and the overconsumption of medication.”

“So you’re against the advancement of technology?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she said. “Technology is part of nature. We used the most advanced systems to survive and rebuild. But its purpose must never be power, control, abuse, or the deformation of our bodies and minds.

There’s a difference between using a prosthetic leg after losing one – and replacing your legs because an AI tool told you that ‘perfection’ requires different ones. Continuously abusing drugs, alcohol, and tobacco just to replace failing organs with synthetic ones isn’t a solution – it is the very problem.

Our umbilical cord to nature must never be severed. We are, and will always be, her children.”

“You know, Diana,” I said seriously, though a soft tingling stirred within me at the thought of sharing millennia in her company, “maybe you should join the Council of Elders on Titan. It’s probably time Earth had a representative.”

She smiled, deeply grateful. “That would be such an honour,” she said. “But soon it will be time for me to return to Mother Earth. And wherever my soul travels next, I will do my best to serve its mission.”

Then she looked into my eyes – her gaze playful, yet filled with a quiet depth – and whispered, “I think I only lasted this long because I was waiting to see you again.”

EPILOGUE

Some events are not meant to be changed. Some histories – heartbreaking, devastating – are destined to unfold exactly as they do, so they can mark the beginning of a new future. One we are meant to walk, and help create.

Perhaps that is why all time warriors, at one point or another, met their end through accidents, through forces no prediction could prevent. Fate, it seems, is stronger than space-time itself. It bends it to its will. And destiny always finds a way to fulfil itself, no matter how many times we try to alter its course.

And what of my own destiny?

Perhaps this mission was always meant to save me, as much as it was meant to save Earth.

In a matter of days, I had learned more than I thought possible about the abilities of the least developed civilisation in the universe. And the immense power they held – balanced precariously between advancement and annihilation.

I had come to understand that there is something greater than the libraries and research centres of our Order, greater than our conviction that we know it all, and know it best.

I had felt emotions I thought long buried – feelings I didn’t know I was still capable of. Millennia had passed since I gave up my life on Kepler and became an Aeon Veer, pledging myself entirely to the Order.

And now – how was I meant to return, to carry on as if nothing had changed? As if this had been just another mission, completed and filed away, leaving no trace behind?

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