I woke up in these pastures a few days ago.
Still disoriented, my body had burned through every last ounce of energy just to complete the journey. My mind was blurred, stretched across time and exhaustion.
The target: Brazil, 20th century.
Instead, I found myself lying among sheep, far from the remains of any known civilization.
When the Mournes found me collapsed in their fields, too weak to speak, I couldn't understand their native tongue. Even the chip failed to recognize the language from any known database. It wasn't until they fed me that fragments of my awareness returned.
And when I finally regained enough clarity to check the coordinates, even less made sense.
The place was right.
The timestamp was right.
But everything else was wrong.
The tools, the clothing, the materials — everything around me matched a level of development consistent with the Bronze Age, not the 20th century. Their language had no relation to Portuguese, nor to any root dialect known to the chip.
As I adapted, small details became even more unsettling. Nothing here aligned with recorded history. The more I observed, the more reality itself resisted explanation.
Again and again, I questioned what was real.
Were my memories false?
Implanted? Distorted?
Could a mind so rich in detail, so filled with structured thought and temporal logic, truly be a lie?
And what about the chip — the processor fused to my mind — confirming my memories with historical logs and mathematical certainties?
No.
It wasn't my memories that were wrong.
It was the universe I had landed in.
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The sun bathed the green pastures where the sheep grazed calmly.
The staff in my hand tapped softly against the earth as I stood near the ridge, watching over the flock.
Orin and Belen, my two large golden-coated dogs, weaved between the animals with practiced grace, keeping them close. Their silence was command enough.
Then, I saw her.
A lone figure climbed the hill, radiant beneath the light.
Her long, light-brown hair moved like a banner in the wind, as if announcing something sacred.
Her bronze skin glowed warmly. The bracelets on her arms caught the sunlight, seeming to blend into her body.
Her robes were white and flowing. Modest, but shaped by motion, revealing just enough to suggest freedom rather than constraint.
At her side walked a beast.
A white wolf, tall and wild. Its gray-tinged fur stirred with the breeze.
Its red eyes scanned everything around us. A presence of judgment, not hostility.
Not a pet. Not a servant. A warning.
I planted my staff in the soil.
"Seraphine Mourne," I murmured.
She was the eldest of the seven daughters of Josh Mourne.
She was married.
And yet, she moved like someone who owed nothing to anyone.
She had the rare ability to disarm people without effort. No persuasion. No manipulation. Her charm was simply part of her nature.
Josh had seven daughters. Six were married.
Only one remained. Junia, the youngest.
And in me, a stranger who had fallen into his fields, Josh saw hope.
Hope to complete the circle.
Hope to see the last daughter wed, and with that, fulfill the legacy he had carried all his life.
I had no legacy. Not here.
I had woken up in these pastures just days ago.
Still weak, my body drained by the journey.
The coordinates were exact. The destination was Brazil, mid-twentieth century.
Instead, I found no cities, no signs of familiar civilization. Only grass, sheep, and a world out of time.
The people spoke a language unknown to the chip fused in my skull.
Bronze tools, handmade textiles, customs that belonged to an age older than recorded memory.
And yet, the data confirmed it. Time and location were accurate.
Everything matched, except the world itself.
The scientist in me tried to rationalize it.
The man in me, cracked by decades of solitude, said nothing.
I had grown used to isolation.
Working alone. Living in silence between collapsing cities.
People were noisy. Driven by need. Calculated.
Even love and kindness had motives behind them. Always gain. Always survival.
That is what I believed.
That is what kept me stable.
And then came Seraphine.
She never demanded attention. She never negotiated for space. She simply existed.
She walked into my world without effort, collapsing every layer I had put between myself and others.
"Hey, Gloomy. Time to bring in the sheep," she said, voice bright as morning.
"The old man wants everyone at the table. Junia is preparing your bath."
She touched my arm and continued toward the herd, not waiting for an answer.
"You're even more grumpy than usual today. And that says a lot, considering your reputation."
She smiled without irony.
"My grandmother says we should be thankful for what we find. And you? You're a miracle.
If I hadn't found you half-dead in the grass, you would've been wolf food."
She lifted a hand to her forehead with dramatic flair.
The wolf beside her did not blink.
This was not theater. This was Seraphine.
I sighed.
"You talk too much. All this noise is giving me a headache. Why are all the Mournes like this? If someone's grumpy, let them be grumpy. Grumpy people are dangerous, you know?"
She laughed.
"You are about as dangerous as a baby goat."
I did not answer.
But I watched her.
And for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine that maybe not all people acted from hunger or fear.
I did not notice it then.
I was too focused on her.
But later, when I looked back, I remembered.
From the edge of the forest, there was a shadow watching us.
Not hiding.
Waiting.