The Ghost of Our Past

The world continued to churn, a kaleidoscope of impossible sights and sounds that refused to settle. Each breath I took felt foreign, the air itself a stranger on my tongue. The ruins of what was once familiar had given way to a landscape sculpted by hands I couldn't recognize. Structures of gleaming, impossibly smooth materials pierced the sky, their surfaces reflecting a sun that felt both too close and too distant. The silence of the ancient city had been replaced by a low, persistent hum, a vibration that seemed to emanate from the very ground beneath my feet.

And then, I saw him.

He stood silhouetted against a sky painted with hues I’d never witnessed, a figure so familiar it stole the air from my lungs. Christopher. The name was a phantom on my lips, a ghost from a life that had evaporated like mist. He hadn't aged, not a single line etched deeper into his face, not a strand of his dark hair showing any silver. He looked exactly as he had the day I last saw him, the day everything shattered.