The Breaking of Time by J.J. Hebert

I’ve spent years pretending to be someone I’m not.

The thought surfaces every morning when I shave, watching the face in the mirror—a face that should be ancient, centuries-old, but instead shows only the faint creases of a man in his early forties. A single gray hair at my temple that Elena keeps threatening to pluck. The kind of weathering that comes from the lost sleep of parenthood and mortgage payments, not from outliving empires.

To everyone else, I’m Daniel Ward—husband, father, the sort of man who mows the lawn on Saturdays and forgets garbage day at least twice a month. My neighbors wave when I’m pulling out the recycling bins, their smiles automatic and easy. Mrs. Dante from next door brings over her extra zucchini in late summer, always too much, always apologizing for the abundance. My coworkers at the accounting firm think I’m polite but quiet, the guy who keeps his head down and never complains about the coffee. My wife calls me dependable, though sometimes I catch a question in her eyes, a flicker of something she can’t quite name.

They all believe they know me.

They don’t.

The other man—the one buried under the flannel shirts and PTA meetings—still lurks somewhere beneath the surface. He’s the one who used to speak to the unseen currents of the world, who could twist wind and time if he chose, who once stood in a circle of elders and made the sky itself hold its breath. But I buried him twenty years ago, the day I first saw Elena across a crowded bookstore, her laugh carrying over the ambient music like a bell I didn’t know I’d been waiting to hear. I traded his power for peace, his truth for love, his ancient purpose for the warm weight of a child falling asleep on my chest. I told myself I could be normal, that five hundred and forty-three years of magic could be folded up and tucked away like old photographs in a drawer.

I even started to believe it.

Today was supposed to be an ordinary day. Another quiet Saturday, nothing more. But when does anything ever go as planned?

It was one of those deceptive autumn afternoons where New England shows off—sun bright and warm on the skin, gilding everything gold. The kind of day that makes you forget winter is coming. Trees along Brookfield Lane shed their red and gold. They carpeted the sidewalks in layers of crimson and amber, crunching underfoot like breaking glass. The whole world felt fragile, caught between seasons, holding its breath before the fall.

I stood at the end of our driveway, sipping coffee that had long gone lukewarm. The mug—a Father’s Day gift from three years ago with “World’s Coolest Dad” printed in fading letters—hung heavy in my hand, forgotten. I was watching the Hendersons’ cat stalk something invisible through their garden, its tail twitching with predatory focus, when Eli kicked his soccer ball a little too hard.

The sound was sharp—that hollow thwack of synthetic leather against a ten-year-old’s foot, released with more enthusiasm than aim. The ball bounced once, twice, then caught the curb at an angle and rolled into the street, picking up speed as it curved toward the stop sign at the corner.

Eli chased it before I could even form the word wait.

He wore his blue hoodie—the one with the frayed cuffs he refused to let Elena fix, the white stripes on the sleeves already graying from too many washes, and one drawstring longer than the other because he’d chewed on it during homework the night before. His sneakers were grass-stained, laces trailing, his gangly ten-year-old body a blur of elbows and knees as he ran with a reckless abandon only children possess. The kind of innocence that comes from not yet understanding that the world has teeth.

The ball slipped into the road, rolling lazily toward the middle of the lane. Eli followed without looking, without thinking, his whole world narrowed to that sphere of black and white pentagons.

And then I heard it.

An approaching car. Not the gentle whisper of someone cruising through the neighborhood, but the aggressive growl of speed—too much speed for a residential street. A truck came around the bend far too fast. The driver probably wasn’t paying attention, likely glancing at his phone or reaching for something on the passenger seat, thinking about anything but the quiet street where children played.

I felt my stomach drop, that vertiginous lurch that comes not from falling but from watching someone you love step off the edge.

The coffee mug slipped from my fingers, hitting the driveway with a dull crack. Coffee spread across the concrete in a dark stain that looked too much like blood.

“Eli!” I shouted. “Look out!”

He didn’t hear. The wind was wrong, carrying sound away from him, and he was bent over the ball now, just a few feet from the centerline, small hands reaching down to scoop it up. His hood had fallen back, revealing the stubborn cowlick at his crown that Elena had tried to smooth down this morning—the same stubborn swirl of hair I’d seen on Jonas five hundred years ago.

The driver saw him at the last minute—I could see the panic flash across his face through the windshield, his mouth opening in what might have been a shout or a curse. He tried to brake—the nose of the truck dipped as he slammed his foot down—but there wasn’t enough distance, not enough time.

The laws of physics are beautiful and merciless. Mass times velocity. Momentum conserved. A two-ton truck traveling at forty miles per hour needs approximately ninety feet to stop.

My son was thirty feet away.

The math was simple. The outcome inevitable.

Everything inside me fractured.

The years I’d spent pretending to be ordinary—gone, shattered like ice on pavement. The quiet life, the safe life, the carefully constructed fiction of Daniel Ward, the accountant—gone. Twenty years of restraint, of biting my tongue when the old words tried to surface, of letting the magic sleep dormant in my bones—all of it evaporated in the space between heartbeats.

My son was about to die, and the man I’d been pretending to be had no way to stop it.

The other man—the buried one—could.

It began as a vibration in my chest, not painful but insistent, like thunder humming before a storm breaks or the first tremor before an earthquake tears the world open. The sensation spread through my ribcage, resonating in the hollow spaces between bone, traveling down into my gut. My hands began to tingle, then burn, the old pathways of power waking, remembering their purpose.

The world thinned around me, like reality itself was just a membrane stretched too tight, waiting for permission to stop turning.

My vision sharpened with supernatural clarity—I could see each particle of dust hanging in the light, suspended like tiny stars. I could see the individual vibrations in the air, the way sound moves in waves, the molecular dance of oxygen and nitrogen. I could see the truck’s trajectory mapped out in lines of probability, see the exact angle at which metal would meet flesh, see the moment my son would stop being my son and become a memory, a ghost, another name added to the long list of those I’d failed to save.

The spell came unbidden to my lips, rising from a place deeper than thought, older than intention.

The syllables were hot and metallic on my tongue, tasting of copper and electricity, of blood and starlight. They weren’t English—weren’t any language spoken in many, many years.

They were Arvynth.

The old words.

The ones I’d sworn I’d never speak again.

“Fractura Tempora.”

The sound tore through the air like a blade through fabric, like lightning splitting the sky, like the world itself being unzipped at the seams.

And reality obeyed.