The floor gave way beneath him. Not like a collapse; no cracking, no crumbling, but as if reality itself had relinquished its hold, deciding he no longer required the certainty of ground beneath his feet.

  Fire took shape, not raging. It consumed, curling through the void, unfolding with an inevitability that felt less like destruction and more like design. And Nolan, whatever vestige of him remained, was unmade. It wasn’t death.

  This was disassembly, like unseen hands had reached inside him, peeled his soul from its casing; stripped away the steel, the Spark, the algorithms, and hurled whatever essence remained into the abyss between moments.

  Time ruptured, shredding at its seams, unraveling in layers, folding in on itself. Nolan’s impulse was to reach out instinctively —desperate, automatic attempts at control—but there were no arms, no form, no structure to command.

  Only thought, shattered and jagged, cracking against the silence like distant thunder. Battles, psychological scars gnawed at him. Claws of pain stirred the most darkest tormentors as the hospital bombing still echoed in his mind.

  Screams, the concussive shockwave, the momentary glimpse of Belle and Joy, and then… her. His mother, or something wearing her shape, formed and reformed familiar and new configurations of this tiny figure.

  Around him, beings danced, walking through realities that may have been, but were now no more. Then there was nothing. Nothing but a tug, Nolan felt something pulling. Not forward. Nor was it pulling him back; he felt himself drawn down to his own very core.

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  Through memories that weren’t his, lifetimes he hadn’t lived. He’d transcended his body; dormant, deconstructed, enslaved; the chapters of life played out before him, but he was unsure if they were his life or not.

  His mother, again tumbled past; younger, unscarred, burning with hope. His father; a soldier, like himself, stern. Breathing, alive, spirals around the two of them. Then, there was just stillness. Nolan hovered, untethered, suspended above all reality. “Is this my destination?”

  This is my origin….

  More images spiraled, enveloping, infusing with Nolan. The life of a young boy unfolded before him; He grew up to become a soldier, tragically lost in war. Before his untimely demise, he had a son who chose a different path, opting for college, instead of war. This son’s fulfilling life played out before Nolan, revealing a family and their beautiful life: dinners, lunches at the park, church every Sunday.

  This man’s funeral materialized around Nolan, leaving a young woman standing over a casket, her fists clenched, gaze filled with the weight of a future already crumbling. He knew this face,

  Noel, his mother. Before the betrayals, but not before heartbreak. One Mind had promised to reveal his history, but how would this go? Nolan searched the grey chasm for One Mind’s essence, which materialized as an orb of dim light.

  “You told me I would be viewing my history,” Nolan was nothing more than a disembodied voice, “how far back are you going to take me?”

  One Mind remained silent for a moment. As the scene unfolded, Noel tumbled to the ground, and the orb’s dim light vanished. Groundskeepers and well-wishers rushed to the woman’s side. The crowd grew larger and larger, all eager to help.

  Finally, One Mind spoke. “Rarely do we learn history as it happens, but rather the truth is divulged in stages. I assure you, all of this is our history.”