Quote from sifop on April 11, 2025, 12:41 pm

The typewriter hadn’t worked in years, yet every morning, Rhea found a new page waiting—written in her style, but not by her hand. Each scene described events in vivid detail: solar flares disrupting global comms, underwater cities surfacing, and a name whispered through code. One page even referenced Zachary S Novel Above Scorched Skies, though she'd never read it. When the first flare hit exactly as written, she stopped calling it coincidence. Somewhere, somehow, the stories were leaking backward. The pages kept coming. Rhea didn’t know if she was dreaming the future or if the future was dreaming through her.