One Hundred Years Forward

The tunnel exhales you into light that isn't sunlight. Barylon has grown teeth — glass towers rake the mist, and the air hums with a sound you have no word for. Where the goat paths used to twist, smooth roads gleam. No bleating. No woodsmoke. No grandmother's chimney threading the sky.

A figure in a sleek grey coat approaches as though expecting you. They press a thin slate into your hand. Numbers scroll across it — your name, an account, a fortune accrued in trust over a hundred patient years. The rumor was true.

You look down at the lantern, suddenly small in your fist. The future waits, polite and indifferent. Somewhere far below the towers, you swear you hear a goat — but it might only be the wind, or memory, or the part of you that still hasn't decided who you are.