Change of the Tides

The city lights bled upward, smearing into starlight as he soared through the air, the world spinning like a kaleidoscope on fire. He struck earth with a crack that wasn’t just bone, it was finality. Asphalt kissed his back like hot steel; the sky above was pinpricked with stars too distant to care. His vision began to swirl as he struggled to remain conscious. Somewhere, sirens howled like wolves chasing ghosts. His consciousness fluttered, blinked, and folded in on itself like a dying flame.

Then, silky sheets encompassing him, absurdly soft. He slowly opened his eyes. Sunlight fractured through gauzy curtains in his bedroom. He blinked. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead. He reached out. Nothing hurt. But memory, ever the unforgiving archivist, replayed the moment his spine snapped with the crispness of breaking ice.

He sat up caustically still clearly remembering the radiating pain that had felt more real than anything he’d ever experienced. Yet he arose without a trouble. He shook his head, feeling uneasy and out of place. Strolling to the restroom he realized something was indeed wrong. Many things were out of place; some things he had no recollection of ever seeing before. The walls bore the same eggshell tone, but the light switches were wrong. A painting he'd never seen, of a sunken ship tangled in coral, hung where his concert poster once lived. The floorboards creaked a half-second off from how he remembered.

He shook off the strange feeling, reaching for a shirt that seemed vaguely familiar. He caught a glimpse of something on his back in the mirror. He did a double take, his mouth slightly aghast. A colossal phoenix unfurled its wings across his shoulder blades, ancient, defiant, inked in burning gold and ash. He staggered closer, fingers grazing skin that felt too unfamiliar.

Panic rose like bile. He had to be dreaming, he reasoned. He willed himself to wake up, slapping his face and pinching himself, but the current reality failed to collapse. Then: a sound in the kitchen. He tiptoed towards the front of his bed, reaching behind the headrest hopefully. His hand emerged holding a crowbar, cold and reliable. He let out a breath, relieved that at least this familiar object was still in its place.

In the kitchen, a man with Nordic-blond hair and a terrycloth robe crunched cereal with a smirk.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

The blond looked up, spoon suspended midair. “Whoa, easy, Hendrick. It’s just me.”

That name—Hendrick—scratched at the inside of his skull like a trapped moth.

“Who? Who the hell are you?”

“Jack? Your roommate?” He narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you okay? You look a little off.”

“I… I don’t have a roommate.”

The stranger frowned at the still raised crowbar. “Can you put that down now man?”

“Who’s Hendrick?” He replied, slowly lowering the weapon yet keeping a strong grip on it.

“Wow.” Jack chuckled. “Good one.”

“Tell me who the hell Hendrick is.” He said angrily.

“Woah dude seriously? How wasted did you get last night? You’re starting to freak me out.” When he got no response, he continued. “You are Hendrick… did you hit your head or something?”

“I am not Hendrick. I’m Jonah. And I don’t have a roommate.”

“Umm… maybe I should call Emilique.”

“Emilique?”

He froze. That name clawed at something buried.

When Jack pointed to the photo on the coffee table, he rushed to it, heart thrumming.

“Laura,” he whispered, breathless.

A photo: her smile, older now, more complex, framed in laugh lines. The girl who had died in a crash when they were seventeen was here—alive. And she had aged.

“No,” he murmured. “No, this can’t be.”

“Laura?” Jack raised an eyebrow.

“She… she… I don’t understand. She was the love of my life. She died when we were teenagers. But in this picture, she is older.” The room swam. He dropped to the couch, hands trembling. “Am I dead?” he probed.

Jack hesitated. “Let’s wait for Emilique.”

“No! No! None of this makes sense.” He slammed his hand on the counter.

“Just calm down.” Jack reasoned.

“Am I dead?” he asked again.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a no. You’re right here talking to me.”

“Last night I got hit by some car out of nowhere when I was riding my motorcycle. I remember flying through the air, my spine breaking. I have no idea how I could have made it back here.”

“Could it have been a nightmare?”

He shook his head. “No. It just was too real. And look.” He peeled off his shirt revealing the enormous tattoo.

Jack shrugged. “I don’t see anything.”

“You don’t see anything? You don’t see this huge phoenix on my back?”

Jack laughed. “Well yeah. I see that but you’ve had that for years man. What are you getting at?”

He collapsed onto the couch, bewildered and anxious as Jack dialed Emilique.

“Hey it’s Jack. Do you think you could come over?” He lowered his voice to a mere whisper. “Hendrick’s going through something. I don’t know if he hit his head, if I should take him to the doctor or what. But I think seeing you would do him some good.”

He put away his phone. “She’s on her way. Do you want me to make some nova or something?”

“Nova? Is that some fancy brand. I’ll just take coffee, any coffee.”

“Coffee?” Jack looked at him puzzled.

“Are you trying to mess with me?”

“No.” Jack said seriously.

He ran his hand through his hair. “Is this is hell?” He murmured, before peering at Jack curiously.

“What? What is it?” Jack inquired.

“I just had a like a flash of a memory or something, but it seemed more like a dream I had a long time ago. We were camping and one of the tents caught fire.”

Jack laughed. “That was no dream buddy. Summer of 21. I’ll never forget it.”

There was a knock at the door. A short, polite rapt, three taps and a pause. Not the kind of knock one gives when they’re panicked. This was practiced. Familiar.

Jack rose. “That’ll be Emilique.”

His voice was calm, but Hendrick—no, Jonah—felt like his bones were trying to whirr their way out of his body. He stood, the crowbar forgotten on the rug beside him.

The door opened.

She stepped in, silhouetted against the hallway light like a ghost rendered in warm tones. Her hair was darker than he remembered. Eyes the same. That unblinking gaze that once made him believe time could be still.

His breath left him.

“Laura,” he whispered.

She blinked. Her smile faltered.

“Sorry?” Her voice was soft, uncertain.

He stepped forward, barely breathing. “Laura…it’s me.”

She touched his arm gently, as one might touch something fragile. “Hendrick,” she said. “It’s Emilique. Are you alright? Jack said you’ve been… confused.”

“I’m not Hendrick.” His voice broke. “I know how that sounds, but—I remember you. Before. Before any of this. Before nova and goddamn missing light switches.”

She glanced at Jack, her eyes pleading for some explanation he couldn’t offer. Then back at him.

“Honey, you’re scaring me.”

“Don't you remember?” he pressed. “When we were seventeen? The lake. The thunderstorm. When our tent collapsed.”

Her lips parted slightly.

He stepped closer. “And the poems. You used to write them and burn them. Said they were for fire, not paper. You burned one in my hands the night before the accident. Your fingers smelled like ink and smoke and—”

She staggered back a step.

“That was a dream,” she whispered.

“No. It wasn’t. It happened.”

Emilique—Laura—wrapped her arms around herself. “My god.”

The silence thickened, filled with static and old ash.

Jack backed away slowly, as if leaving a room he no longer belonged in. “I’ll… I’ll give you two a moment.”

The door clicked shut.

She looked at him now as though truly seeing him for the first time. “How can this be?”

“I thought I died last night. My spine cracked like a snapped violin string. And then I was here. Older. Alive. With you.”

She sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, dazed. “When I read your cards last week, I thought I’d made a mistake. I drew The Tower. Twice. Then The Fool. Then—Death and The Star reversed.”

She gave a breathless laugh, bitter and afraid.

“I thought it was just the cards being cruel. But now…”

He sat beside her.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But maybe… maybe you didn't survive. Not entirely. Maybe you collapsed into the nearest version of yourself that could hold you.”

Her hands trembled in her lap.

“You mean I’m… not me?” he asked.

She looked at him, studied his face like it was a riddle. “Maybe you're both. Or maybe Hendrick rewritten.”

He reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away.

“I missed you so much,” he said.

She nodded. “I always felt like this life was a second draft. A mirror that didn’t line up right.”

He glanced out the window. The sky was the wrong shade of blue. The clouds moved like they were underwater. A distant bird traced a perfect figure-eight before disappearing into nothing.

The phoenix tattoo on his back itched—alive somehow, aware. A symbol burned across timelines, smuggled through death.

“You remember the poems burning?” he asked. “The tent collapsing. You laughed even as we struggled to get out.”

She smiled softly, eyes glinting with old tears. “I said it was too beautiful to last.”

“Maybe none of it was meant to,” he said.

They sat like that for a long time. Two souls misfiled by the universe. Memory flickering between them like Morse code sent from a dream.

When Jack returned, carrying a mug of nova, neither spoke. The world would not be explained. It would only be lived. Again.