Echoes of the Unmade

Elliot Grayson woke to the sound of water that wasn’t there. The dream clung like damp cloth: a wave, gray and curling, roared toward them across a shoreless sea. At thirty-two, they didn’t run anymore. They leapt—high, clean, the air rushing past like a shout—and landed dry, the crash a dull thud behind them. In their hand, the Chronovox hummed, a fist-sized orb of gears and light, its glow threading through their fingers. They exhaled, slow, the mattress creaking under them. The room smelled of charcoal and stale coffee, sketches pinned to the walls like a madman’s map—waves, pipes, that damn orb. They’d been ten once, small and frantic, waking from those waves with wet cheeks and a scream in their throat. The fear was a live thing then, sharp as broken glass. By sixteen, the dreams shifted—factories now, endless nests of pipes twisting like veins. They’d crawl through, heart hammering, until one night they stopped hiding and bent a pipe with their hands, the metal groaning like it knew them. The Chronovox came later, in their twenties, a constant in the chaos. They’d soar with it, no wings, over cities that melted into rivers, the hum sinking into their bones. Each dream left a mark—fear faded, curiosity hardened, and now, this quiet control. The feeling stayed, though, deep as a bruise, coloring the day after. Elliot swung their legs off the bed, bare feet on cold wood, and reached for the sketchbook. Their hand froze. Where the book should’ve been, the Chronovox sat—real, solid, its light pulsing like a heartbeat. No shock, just a tired nod. They’d grown into expecting this, the way you expect rain after thunder. The air thickened; the walls shivered. They touched it, and the room broke—floor surging like a wave, pipes sprouting from corners, coiling fast. Then they were up, soaring, no wings, the Chronovox’s hum a roar in their chest. A crimson flash swallowed them, and they landed hard in a place where the sky rippled and shadows blinked with too many eyes. They stood, steadier than they’d ever been, and gripped the orb. Whatever this was, they were ready.

The wave came first—taller than God, gray as a dead man’s eye, roaring like it wanted to eat the world. Elliot Grayson didn’t blink. They leapt, thirty-two years of muscle and nerve launching them over the crest, the Chronovox blazing in their fist—gears grinding, light slashing the dark. They landed dry, the crash a hollow boom, and woke with the hum still clawing their chest. No sweat, no scream. Not anymore. The room stared back—sketches of waves and twisted pipes peeling off the walls, charcoal dust thick as grief. They’d been ten once, drowning in those dreams, waking to a mother who’d hush them with lies. Now, the fear was a ghost, and the feeling—deep, raw, like a handprint on their soul—stayed all day.

They swung out of bed, bare feet slapping wood, and stopped. The sketchbook was gone. In its place, the Chronovox—real, glowing, heavier than it should be. The air buckled; the floor rippled like water. Pipes punched through the walls, coiling fast, and Elliot soared—no wings, just will—into a crimson gash where the sky bled eyes. They were ready, and it wasn’t a choice.