Sixth attempt.

The frame glowed brighter than before. Not just a shimmer this time—a full distortion, like reality was tearing itself open. The air inside the circle rippled, folded, became something else.

Ankon stood frozen, cigarette falling from his lips.

Holy shit. Holy shit it's working.

The hum grew louder. His entire room vibrated. The calculations on his walls seemed to pulse in rhythm with the light. Every failed attempt, every burned hand, every sleepless night—it all led to this moment.

Downstairs, his mother's voice: "ANKON IF YOU BLOW THE POWER AGAIN—"

He didn't wait.

He stepped through.

The sensation was... indescribable.

Like being pulled through water that wasn't wet. Like falling upward while standing still. His stomach lurched. Colors inverted—red became cyan, yellow became violet. Sound stretched into a low groan, then snapped back into silence.

For a moment, he saw everything—infinite timelines branching like trees, each one a different choice, a different life. He saw himself dying at fifteen. At twenty. At thirty. He saw versions that never existed, versions that gave up, versions that succeeded.

He saw a version that was happy.

Then—

Thud.

He hit grass.

Cold. Wet. Real.

Ankon lay there for a moment, staring up at a sky that wasn't Dhaka's polluted gray. It was clear. Stars visible even through the streetlights.

Where...

He pushed himself up slowly. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the residual energy still coursing through him. Every nerve felt raw, exposed.

He was in a park. Trees everywhere, leaves turning orange and red. Autumn. The air smelled like rain and earth and something he couldn't name—safety, maybe. Or just the absence of rot.

American-style houses lined the street beyond the park. Porches with rocking chairs. Mailboxes. A quiet so profound it hurt.

A wooden sign near the path: "Riverside Community Park - Est. 1952"

Another sign further down: "Welcome to Riverside, Oregon - Population 8,340"

Oregon.

I built a portal in Bangladesh and somehow ended up in Oregon.

Ankon laughed. A sharp, disbelieving sound that came out more like a sob.

He looked back. The portal was gone. Just empty air behind him, the space between trees. No way back. No glowing frame. Nothing.

Okay. Okay breathe. You're in 1985 Oregon. You have no money. No ID. No plan.

But you're not in Dhaka.

That thought alone kept him standing.

He walked.

The neighborhood felt like a movie set. Too clean. Too quiet. Nobody shouting. No distant gunfire. No smell of burning garbage or diesel fumes.

Just... peace.

It made his skin crawl.

This is what normal people get to live in, he thought bitterly. This is what I never had.

He passed a house with warm light glowing from inside. Through the window, a family eating dinner together. Laughing. A father ruffling his son's hair.

Ankon looked away, jaw tight.

Don't think about it.

He found a bench near the park entrance.

Sat down. Lit his last cigarette. Tried to process what the fuck he'd just done.

I actually did it. I built a working portal. I left 2032. I'm in 1985.

Now what?

The question hung in the cold air, unanswered.

Footsteps.

Ankon's head turned.

A guy was walking through the park—around sixteen, maybe, American features, blonde hair that fell across his forehead, hands shoved in the pockets of a worn denim jacket. He had that casual confidence of someone who belonged here, who'd walked this path a hundred times.

He glanced at Ankon as he passed.

Then stopped.

Turned back.

"You good, man?"

Ankon blinked. "What?"

"You look..." The guy gestured vaguely. "Lost. Or like you're about to pass out. You high?"

"No."

The guy studied him for a moment, then shrugged and kept walking.

But something made him stop again.

He turned back, frowning. "Have we met before?"

"No," Ankon said. "I just got here."

"From where?"

Bangladesh. 2027. A timeline where everything went to shit.

"Out of state," Ankon said instead.

The guy tilted his head, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "You feel... familiar. Like I know you from somewhere."

Ankon's chest tightened.

No way.

"What's your name?" Ankon asked carefully.

"Ethan." The guy walked closer, hands still in his pockets. "Ethan Pierce. You?"

"Ankon… Just Ankon."

"That's a cool name. Foreign?"

"Bangladeshi."

"Huh." Ethan sat down on the other end of the bench without asking. "Long way from Bangladesh."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Ethan said, "You're gonna think this is weird, but... do you believe in past lives?"

Ankon's heart stopped.

"Why?"

"Because I don't know you. I've never seen you before. But sitting here... it feels like I know you. Like..." He trailed off, frustrated. "I don't know how to explain it."

Ankon stared at him.

Different face. Different name. Different body.

But the same pull. The same recognition.

"I feel it too," Ankon said quietly.

Ethan's eyes snapped to his. "You do?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

Ankon took a drag from his cigarette, deciding how much truth to give.

"What if I told you I'm from a different timeline?"

Ethan laughed. "Like parallel universe shit?"

"Yeah."

"Dude that's insane." But his smile faded when he saw Ankon's expression. "...Wait. You're serious?"

"I built a portal. Stepped through. Ended up here."

"That's—" Ethan stopped. Looked at him. Really looked. "You're not joking."

"No."

"Prove it."

Ankon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a coin—a Bangladeshi taka from 2027. He handed it over.

Ethan examined it, turning it over in his hands. "This metal... I've never seen this alloy. And the date—2027?" He looked up. "Where'd you get this?"

"My timeline."

Ethan stared at the coin, then at Ankon. "Holy shit."

"Yeah."

"So you're like... a time traveler?"

"More like a timeline traveler. This isn't my past. It's a parallel present."

Ethan was quiet for a long moment, processing.

Then: "Why do I feel like I know you?"

"Because we're the same," Ankon said. "Not the same person. Not the same body. But the same... essence. Soul, I guess. In your timeline, you're Ethan Pierce. In mine, I'm Ankon Rahman. But underneath, we're—"

"The same," Ethan finished, his voice barely a whisper. "That's why it feels like this."

"Yeah."

They sat there, two strangers who weren't strangers at all.

"This is fucking wild," Ethan finally said.

"Tell me about it."

"So what now? You just... stay here?"

"I don't know. I didn't plan past 'make portal work.'"

Ethan looked at him—at the exhaustion in his face, the way he held himself like someone used to fighting, the emptiness behind his eyes.

"Your timeline sucks, doesn't it?"

Ankon let out a bitter laugh. "That obvious?"

"You look like you've been through hell."

"Something like that."

Ethan was quiet for a moment. Then he stood up. "Come on."

"Where?"

"My place. You can't just sit here all night."

"I'm fine—"

"Dude you literally have nowhere to go. Just come on."

Ankon hesitated.

Why is he helping me?

"Because we're the same," Ethan said, like he'd read his mind. "And you look like you need help."

They walked through quiet streets.

Ethan filled the silence with questions—about the portal, about 2032, about Bangladesh. Ankon answered some, deflected others.

"So in your timeline, what do you do?"

"Survive, mostly."

"That's dark."

"It's honest."

Ethan glanced at him. "What happened to you?"

"Life. Bad choices. Worse luck."

"You got family?"

"A mom. We don't really talk anymore."

"Friends?"

"Had some. They all turned out to be assholes."

"Damn." Ethan kicked a rock down the sidewalk. "That's rough."

"What about you?"

"I got a solid crew. Best friends since middle school. And..." He smiled slightly. "A girlfriend. Lena. She's... special."

Something in Ankon's chest twisted.

Of course he has people. Of course his life is better.

"That's good," he managed.

They reached a small house.

Warm light glowing from the windows. A porch with a swing that creaked slightly in the wind.

"My mom's probably asleep," Ethan said, unlocking the door quietly. "We'll figure out a cover story tomorrow. For tonight, you can crash in my room."

"Your mom's not gonna—"

"She's cool. Trust me."

Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon and old wood. Photos on the walls—Ethan at various ages, smiling, surrounded by people who loved him.

A family that stayed together.

Ankon felt that familiar ache in his chest.

Ethan's room was lived-in but organized.

Posters of bands. A guitar in the corner. Books stacked on a desk next to scattered homework.

"Sorry it's not much," Ethan said, tossing a jacket onto a chair. "You can take the bed, I'll grab some blankets and crash on the floor."

"I'm not taking your bed."

"Dude you look like you haven't slept in a week."

"I haven't."

"Then take the bed."

Ankon was too tired to argue.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and the exhaustion hit him all at once. The adrenaline from the portal, from arriving here, from meeting Ethan—it all drained away, leaving him hollow.

"Hey," Ethan said, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah."

"This soul connection thing. Do you think... do you think we make the same choices? Like, are we the same person at our core, or do our timelines make us different?"

Ankon thought about it. "I think we start the same. But then life happens. Your life made you..." He gestured vaguely. "This. Confident. Hopeful. Mine made me... whatever I am now."

"Broken?"

"Realistic."

Ethan frowned. "That's sad."

"It's survival."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Ethan said, "Well, you're here now. In this timeline. Maybe things can be different."

Different.

Ankon wanted to believe that. He really did.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Maybe."

The next morning.

Ethan's mom—a kind woman with tired eyes and a warm smile—accepted the "friend visiting from out of state" story without too much questioning.

"You look thin," she said, already pulling out a pan for breakfast. "When's the last time you ate?"

Ankon couldn't remember.

She made pancakes.

Later, Ethan took him to meet his friends.

"They're good people," Ethan said as they walked. "A little chaotic, but solid. You'll fit in."

"I'm not really a people person."

"Yeah I picked up on that." Ethan grinned. "But trust me. They're worth it."

They arrived at a house with bikes scattered on the lawn and music playing faintly from inside.

Inside was controlled chaos.

A girl with short red hair and sharp eyes—Casey—was arguing with a guy who had messy curls and manic energy—Ben—about something involving dice and dragons.

Another guy, calmer and more grounded—Tyler—sat on the couch reading, occasionally interjecting with dry commentary.

They all looked up when Ethan walked in.

"Yo," Ethan said. "Everyone, this is Ankon. He's... visiting. From out of state."

Casey looked him up and down. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," Ankon said flatly.

She smirked. "I like him already."

Ben bounced over. "Where you from?"

"Bangladesh."

"That's dope! What's it like?"

Broken. Violent. Suffocating.

"...Different," Ankon said.

Tyler closed his book. "How long you staying?"

"Don't know yet."

"Cool. You play D&D?"

"No."

"You do now," Ben declared.

Then she walked in.

From the hallway, carrying mugs of tea, her brown hair pulled back in a loose braid.

Lena.

She stopped when she saw them, her eyes going wide for just a second.

"Oh," she said. "I didn't know we had company."

"Lena, this is Ankon," Ethan said, and his whole demeanor shifted—softer, brighter. "Ankon, this is my girlfriend, Lena."

Of course.

Lena set down the mugs and walked closer, studying Ankon's face with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

Then she did something strange.

She reached out—not touching him, just hovering her hand near his chest—and her expression shifted.

"You..." She looked at Ethan, then back at Ankon. "You feel the same."

"The same as what?" Casey asked.

"As him." Lena gestured between Ethan and Ankon. "Like... the same energy. The same..." She struggled for words. "Soul?"

The room went quiet.

Ethan and Ankon exchanged a look.

"That's because we are," Ethan said carefully. "Same soul. Different timelines."

"...What?" Ben said.

"Long story."

Casey crossed her arms. "I want the long story."

They spent the next hour explaining.

Parallel timelines. The portal. The soul connection.

By the end, Ben was practically vibrating with excitement, Tyler looked fascinated, and Casey seemed cautiously convinced.

But Lena...

She kept looking at Ankon with this expression he couldn't read. Like she was seeing something no one else could.

"That's why it felt so strange," she said quietly. "When you walked in, I felt... confused. Like I recognized you but didn't."

"Because you recognize his soul," Ethan said. "Not his face."

Lena nodded slowly, but she looked troubled.

Over the next few days, Ankon stayed.

The group absorbed him into their routines without much fuss.

Casey taught him to skateboard. (He was terrible. She found it hilarious.)

Ben dragged him into a D&D campaign. (He had no idea what he was doing, but the chaos was entertaining.)

Tyler loaned him books and asked thoughtful questions about his timeline.

And Ethan...

Ethan treated him like a brother. Not with pity, but with genuine care.

It was strange.

It was uncomfortable.

It was the first time in years Ankon felt like he belonged somewhere.

But Lena was complicated.

She was Ethan's girlfriend—that much was obvious from the way they moved around each other, the casual affection, the shared glances.

And Ankon was fine with that.

(He wasn't.)

Because sometimes, she'd catch his eyes across the room, and for just a moment, something would shift. Like she was seeing him—not just Ethan's soul in a different body, but him specifically.

Then she'd look away, and the moment would pass.

She's not yours. She belongs to him. To the version of you that actually deserves her.

One night, Ethan found him on the roof.

"Thought I'd find you up here."

Ankon didn't respond, just took another drag from his cigarette.

Ethan sat down beside him, legs dangling over the edge.

"You doing okay?"

"Define okay."

"Fair point." Ethan was quiet for a moment. "Does it bother you? That I have... all this? Friends. Family. Lena."

Ankon exhaled smoke slowly. "Honestly? Yeah. A little."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You didn't do anything wrong. You just got lucky with your timeline."

"Or you got unlucky with yours."

"Same thing."

They sat in silence, watching the stars.

"For what it's worth," Ethan said, "I'm glad you're here."

"Why?"

"Because you're proof that I survive. That some version of me, even in the worst circumstances, finds a way to keep going. That takes strength."

Ankon looked at him—this softer, more hopeful version of himself.

"You think I'm strong?"

"Yeah. I do."

Ankon didn't know what to say to that.

Weeks passed.

Ankon stopped talking about going back.

He got a job at a local auto shop—paid under the table, no questions asked.

He joined their movie nights. Their weekend hangouts. Their inside jokes.

He started to feel... lighter.

Like maybe, in this timeline, he could be someone different.

Someone who wasn't always waiting for the next betrayal.

But late at night, alone, he'd wonder:

Why did the portal bring me here?

Why to him, specifically?

What am I supposed to do?

He didn't have answers yet.

But for the first time in years, he had something else. TIME