Part 7: The Meeting with The Keeper of Time

The spiral of light twisted tighter around Lyn, wrapping her in a silent hum like a lullaby made of clockwork. With each step forward, she no longer walked on stone or ground, but on glowing lines of time—intersecting, floating, rewinding. All around her, fragments of forgotten futures spun like lanterns: a street she’d never walked, a child she never had, a version of herself sitting quietly beside a man she never met.

And then—stillness.

She stood in a vast, dark chamber where nothing moved, not even sound. At its center sat an ancient throne made entirely of dismantled clock parts. The gears were still turning, but they made no noise. Sitting on the throne was a figure cloaked in shadow and stars, face hidden beneath a mask of shifting silver that resembled no era, no time. Only two gleaming eyes shone through.

“You’ve come far, Lyn,” said the voice—not male, not female, not even human, but… constant, like a pendulum swinging perfectly. “Why?”

“To break the loop,” she answered, her voice firmer than she expected. “To return to the moment where I can choose. To really choose.”

The Keeper of Time leaned forward. “Most only want to rewind, relive, correct. You want to return.”

“Yes.”

“You wish to undo the damage?”

“No,” she said, “I want to face it. Time isn’t meant to be edited like a letter. It’s meant to be lived, line by line.”

The Keeper was silent. Then, they raised one hand. From behind the throne rose a giant hourglass, its sands flowing upward. Time, in reverse.

“This is the Final Permission,” the Keeper said. “Step through, and you’ll be returned to the exact moment when the first watch was wound… before your father disappeared, before Du Hao followed you, before you learned how to bend time.”

Lyn stepped forward, her breath caught between fear and determination.

“But beware,” the Keeper added. “Memory is a fragile thread. You may not remember what brought you here. Only your heart will know. And if you stray again—time will not forgive you.”

Lyn turned back for one last look. Behind her, all her alternate selves flickered in the dark like constellations. Sad, cold, and lost.

Then she stepped through the glass.

She awoke to the scent of old gears and tea.

Her father’s workshop.

The morning sun filtered through the dusty windows. Outside, someone knocked softly.

“Lyn?” Du Hao’s voice.

She turned, startled. Everything was in place.

The world was not perfect.

But it was hers again.