By the time the stars blinked open above Alderwood, two friends stood before something ancient, magical, and waiting...

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The Wishing Tree stood deep in the heart of Greymoor Woods, in a clearing most people couldn’t find unless it wanted to be found. Gnarled roots twisted like sleeping serpents, its bark smooth and silvery, as if moonlight had been poured over it. It was said to hum softly if...

Paper boats drift in the gutter’s stream,

tiny vessels of a childhood dream—

ink-smudged names and folded wings

sailing beneath the breath of spring.

The scent of lemons clings to air,

fresh and sharp and oddly fair,

like sunlight pressed through fingers thin

or laughter where a storm had been.

A drop falls—salt, not rain—

tears that neither cleanse nor stain,

just shimmer in the morning hush

an...

The morning tide had always been generous to the quiet coastal town of Merrenport—shells the size of fists, driftwood twisted into sculptures, even the occasional message in a bottle that sparked gossip for days. But nothing like what came in that fog-drenched morning in early September.

It began with the typewriter.

An old, barnacle-encrusted Underwood, keys locked in place by rust, sat partial...

The room had no walls, no floor, and no ceiling. It was a place between moments — a gap in the ticking of the universe's great clock.

Spock stood perfectly upright, his hands behind his back, one eyebrow slightly raised.

Moments ago, he had been conducting a sensor sweep aboard the Enterprise, when an improbable energy surge had enveloped him. Now, he was here — wherever *here* was.

A figure ap...

Her hands were a map of a life no one had fully asked about—etched not with ink, but with time, toil, and quiet resilience. They were neither delicate nor particularly graceful. In fact, they looked almost out of place against the floral print of the blouses she favored, or the lace cuffs she sometimes wore to church. Her fingers were short and thick, the nails trimmed close and uneven, with tiny ...

In a narrow alley of Lisbon, where the cobblestones gleamed like wet fish scales after the rain, stood a forgotten library. Its sign had long since lost its paint, and ivy crept up the façade, threading through the stonework like green veins. The locals hurried past, sparing it only glances of vague familiarity — as if it had always been there, though none could remember when it had been built.

I...

CHAPTER ONE: The Empty Space

I was the only one who noticed.

At first, it was a smudge. A faint circle of dust where the old cookie jar used to sit, surrounded by a few stray crumbs. Harmless enough. But when I leaned closer, the hairs on my neck rose.

The jar was gone.

No one else seemed to care. My cousins ran shrieking through Grandma’s living room, oblivious. Aunt Marla flicked through a ma...

The deafening roar of the crowd vibrated through the arena as lights flashed, and banners waved. The annual "Titan's Gauntlet" was the most prestigious competition in the country, drawing warriors, scholars, and performers alike. This year, it was personal.

Theo Blackwood stood at the edge of the ring, his pulse pounding like a war drum. He had fought his way through every round, every rival, unt...

The train jerks, passengers swaying in synchrony, caught in the unspoken dance of city life. A muffled announcement crackles over the speakers—something about delays, but no one listens. They’ve heard it before. The sighs, the exchanged glances, the resigned tapping of fingers against metal poles—it’s all routine.

A woman clutches her coffee like a lifeline; her lipstick imprint smudged on the ri...

Poland, 1942

The snow fell in a hush over Warsaw, muting the world in a blanket of cold white silence. Buildings wore the scars of bombings, their hollowed faces like ghosts, staring out over a city that breathed in whispers. Curfews darkened the streets early, and even whispers of rebellion traveled only in secret.

Inside the narrow kitchen of a crumbling tenement, Zofia Nowak lit the last stub...