Fire and destruction are all around. Did I do this? Did I create a war—complete with earth-shattering explosions, shrieking bullets, and whistling bombs dropped from planes overhead? It’s unfathomable, and yet, here I am. I look around, paralyzed, my eyes wide with disbelief. The square appears untouched, but the surrounding city is all but destroyed. It’s only when a bomb explodes so close that rubble and dirt spit in my face that I dive for cover behind a half-destroyed handcart.
No, I can’t have caused this. How could I? It’s just too immense. This is still the Shadow World. I must have transported myself here through time.
Quickly, I scan my surroundings, looking for my mother, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I can only hope she’s still where I left her, trying to “rebuild” herself drop by drop—if that’s even possible. I do spot Mastro, though, hiding behind a toppled wall just a hundred meters away, Angel cowering behind him. He looks at me with wide, disbelieving eyes but is quickly distracted by a plane passing overhead, flying far too low and trailing a thick cloud of smoke. It crashes into a house at the end of the street.
I sprint, head down, around the corner, leaping over a car—or what remains of it—and wrap my arms around my head, waiting until the bombardment gradually fades into the distance. Only then do I dare to look up and take in a scene straight out of a disaster movie.
The street looks like Swiss cheese—holes everywhere. Everything is broken, shattered, or disintegrated. It’s utterly devastating, but it also offers a chance to find some kind of shelter. I clamber over a burned-out army truck and slip into a house through a small cellar window set just above the pavement.
Only then, I manage to get some control over my breathing and allow myself a moment to think but with little success. I’m confused, afraid and utterly exhausted. Using my last bit of energy, I turn up my internal thermostat to keep myself warm, pull my knees to my chest, roll onto my side, and fall into a deep, comatose sleep on the hard cellar floor, lit only by the soft orange glow emanating from my body.
When I wake again, it’s night. Though I still feel like I’ve been hit by a train, the sleep has done me some good. It’s time to act—time to find my way back to my mother. Even if I don’t have a clue how, I have to try. My best chance is to return to the spot where I arrived here. I just hope I can find it again.
I push myself up from the floor, take a few deep breaths and stretch my back. But as I grab the windowsill to hoist myself onto the street, two feet shuffle past, barely half a meter from my face. Instinctively, I jerk my hand back and only when she’s well past do I dare stick my head out to see who it is. To my surprise, it’s a girl—an ordinary girl, about my age, moving stealthily from one hiding place to the next. Her dress, though faded and patched many times, is immaculately clean. The floral print looks strikingly out of place against the backdrop of the ruined streetscape.
Cautiously, making sure not to cut myself, I wrestle onto the pavement, ready to retrace the way I came. Fortunately, it’s in the opposite direction of the girl. Still, I hesitate, watching the girl as she turns the corner at the end of the street, from behind a car. Something feels off. It’s... the dress. I know that dress. I’ve seen it before—but where?
And then I see him—a boy, maybe eleven years old. Suddenly, everything becomes clear. I would recognize that boy anywhere, among a million faces. I’ve studied his face countless times. For as long as I can remember, his picture stood on Gran’s nightstand.
There were four items that I was drawn to like a nail to a magnet when I was young, if only because they were the only items that had survived the war: a vintage, worn-down Superman night-light and three picture frames arranged in a perfect half-circle around it. The first frame held an old black-and-white portrait of my great-grandmother. The second, of her father, who didn’t return home after the war—presumably dead. And the last one? A portrait of a boy. Gran’s little brother. A bright, young kid, beaming happily at the world. And it’s the exact same boy I see now, sneaking from shadow to shadow on the other side of the street in pursuit of the girl. Gran! It must be Gran! This changes everything!
My feet already start moving before my head even asks them to. I have to follow her. In a strange way it’s a relief. The chance that I’ll successfully transport myself back to the present is about 0.00001%... on a good day. And I’m not sure if I’m ready to face the realization that I might never be able to go back at all. Shit. This time-travel bullshit gives me a headache. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies where the hero had to avoid meeting their other self in another timeline at all costs. Something about the time-space continuum that would result in collapsing parallel universes and devastating catastrophes. I shake my head violently. Even if there is any truth in all this, it probably doesn’t work the same in this Shadow World anyway. Here’s everything upside down and backwards. The only thing I know is that I have to keep moving, if only to escape Mastro who’ll be ruthlessly pursuing me by now.
The boy—my uncle—rounds the corner. What was his name again? Jacob? Otte, yes, Otte. I have to speed up if I don’t want to lose track of him... them. Luckily, the street lights are destroyed or have no power. The streets themselves are completely abandoned. Probably some kind of curfew. Excellent.
When I turn the corner myself, I see Gran moving cautiously toward the end of the street, hardly making any sound. The same can’t be said of her brother who seems to bump into everything in his path or trip over every piece of debris. And so we follow each other, street after street. We must be close to the harbor. I smell the sea and the houses are gradually replaced by barracks and silos. Good, I think. Fewer houses mean less chance of being caught.
Then, two soldiers emerge from a dark alley directly in front of me, their eyes fixed so intently on the boy who just walked past that they don’t even notice me. Instinctively, I duck into the porch of one of the last apartment buildings, cautiously watching as they walk away in pursuit of the boy. They look well-fed and heavily armed. Guns and grenades dangle from their utility belts, and two very real rifles hang from their shoulders. Fortunately for me, their attention stays firmly fixed on Otte.
My mind is racing. What can I do? If I intervene, I risk altering the past and, consequently, the future. Like in the classic movie Back to the Future, my parents will slowly fade from our family photos—and so will I.
The only thing I can do, is follow the soldiers who are following Otte, who’s following Gran. This is turning into a pretty bizarre parade.
In the distance, Gran halts in front of the massive sliding door of a gigantic storehouse labeled '22’. Otte crouches behind a stack of bricks, not far from her. The soldiers have somehow vanished. Not sure where they are.
Gran runs forward, pushes the sliding door open and slips inside. Moments later, Otte follows. I exhale a deep breath of relief—they're safe. Still, unease pricks at the edges of my mind. A story—or no, something my mother said just before she burst into a billion droplets of water. Something about Gran's past: a freak accident in a food supply silo. This can’t be a coincidence. This has to be it. That’s why my subconscious has led me to this time and place.
I abandon every sense of caution. Forget the time-space continuum or other sci-fi shit. But when I’m about to leave my hiding spot and sprint to the Silo to warn them, the two soldiers appear out of nowhere, strolling casually toward the door. Before I know it, they’ve entered the Silo and have shut the door behind them.
Panic pounces on me like a pack of wolves. Out of everyone in the entire world, across all of history, Gran’s the one who must be saved, but the sliding doors are locked. Pressing my ear against the doors, I catch the sound of voices—a deep, older voice and a lighter, boyish one—but the words are too muffled to make out. The doors are just too thick. There has to be another way in, I think, another entrance somewhere. I dart along the side of the building, heading for the back, but before I make it halfway, an ear-shattering crash of heavy objects hitting the ground freezes me in my tracks. Then, slicing through the chaos, a single, sharp gunshot rings out.
When I reach the back, everything is quiet again. I frantically try the small door, but it’s locked. Somewhere in the distance, a siren begins to howl. I hesitate. Should I try to kick in the door and storm inside? But before I can decide anything, the door swings open. Quickly, I hide in the shadows, unsure of what to expect. I tense my muscles, ready to attack. If the soldiers come out first, I will burn them to the ground. My temperature rises, and my palms begin to itch. But it’s not the soldiers who emerge; it’s the girl in the washed-out floral dress, pale as chalk, shaking like a leaf. Gran! I want to run to her and help, but before I can move, a voice sounds right beside me.
“Oh dear. I had truly forgotten how terrified I was that day. Poor girl. I was still so young.” With a jolt, I turn my head. Next to me stands the same girl who just seconds ago came through the door, now running away to save herself.
“Gran? Gran, is this you?”