The Spinning Cycle
Soren got up from his bed, ready for another day. A day like any other.
Nothing outright good. Nothing inherently bad. Just another day.
Yet, something felt off.
The concept of time itself had begun slipping through his fingers, like trying to hold onto water. Had it always been like this? He couldn't tell anymore.
His eyes landed on his desk.
A spinning top twirled there, its motion steady and hypnotic.
But he didn't remember spinning it.
Next to it, scattered notes.
The handwriting was atrocious—the kind that would make past literary masters die a second death. But Soren's mind wasn't startled by them.
Just… curious.
Hmm. Odd.
He stepped forward, picking up one of the crumpled notes. The ink bled across the paper, rushed and barely legible.
"Time is running out. An ember is missing—End the cy—"
Soren blinked.
"An ember is missing… and I'm running out of time…"
A strange emptiness settled in his chest—a feeling he had grown accustomed to, but now it was different.
It wasn't just emptiness. It was hollow. Like something had been carved out of him.
No. Not carved out. Taken.
For a fleeting moment, something stirred inside him—a distant, aching heat. A fire.
An ember, buried deep within his soul, yearning to burn.
For a moment, he almost remembered.
My parents and Auren...
They're gone.
Forever.
Or at least… they should be.
A horribly wrong feeling crept into his mind, slow and deliberate, like cold fingers wrapping around his thoughts.
There were still the last words on the note.
"…and I have to end the cy—"
The cycle?
The moment the word formed in his mind, something warm wrapped itself around his thoughts, pulling them away—like a tide erasing footprints in the sand.
That feeling.
He had felt it before.
But… where?
Wait. I can't remember?
His breath hitched. No. No, no.
"I have to warn myself—"
His hands moved on instinct.
Soren grabbed a pen and flipped to a new page. The words were already slipping away from his mind, unraveling like loose thread.
Focus, god damn it!
His fingers gripped the pen tighter. He scribbled over the earlier words, replacing them with something clearer, something his future self could follow.
"Trust the steps. One at a time. Draw over completed. 'Ember' to forget after each step."
No—it's slipping.
His breath quickened. The words were already fading from his mind.
My future self has to be able to complete it.
THINK.
The tide of fog was rising fast, clawing at his thoughts, erasing everything it touched. His mind strained against it, holding onto the last fragment of clarity.
One more message. A final directive.
"Guide the Ember, to end the cycle."
The second his pen left the paper, his fingers slackened.
The pen slipped from his grasp.
For a moment—just a second—his mind went blank.
A dull static settled over his thoughts, smoothing over the gaps, numbing whatever had been clawing at the edge of his awareness.
Then, like nothing had happened, he shook his head and stood up, muttering to himself.
"Mom has probably made breakfast."
He pulled on his clothes and headed downstairs.
As Soren stepped into the kitchen, the golden morning light poured through the windows, casting long streaks across the wooden floor. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasted coffee beans curled through the air, warm and familiar.
The kitchen table was set with different types of bread, each topped with an assortment of spreads—butter, cheese, jam. Everything was perfect.
Almost… staged.
His mother stood by the counter, pouring coffee into a ceramic cup.
"Sorr, would you like some coffee?" she asked, her voice gentle.
Soren hesitated.
For a moment, his chest tightened—like he had forgotten something important. Like he had lost something before he even realized it was gone.
But there was nothing.
Just the warm scent of coffee. The golden light through the window. A perfect morning.
"Yeah, thanks," he said, nodding.
Hurried footsteps echoed behind Soren. The weight of them—familiar.
Before he could turn, a hand landed on his black hair, ruffling it with practiced ease.
"The boy genius—what have you been up to?"
Auren's voice was light, teasing, the same as always. Effortless.
The hand slid off his head just as naturally as it had landed.
"Actually, we should do something today." Auren's tone turned lively, eager. "What about sword practice? Last time you beat me, but I've been training. A lot."
Excited. Confident. Just like always.
"Sure," he answered, his voice flat. Distant. Gloomy.
By midday, Soren stood in the backyard, wooden sword in hand.
The ocean gleamed through the gaps between shimmering leaves, its surface dancing under the sun. A sight so striking, yet his mind was elsewhere.
Soren had always been good at everything.
Not perfect. But always above average.
Everything came easily. Everything felt temporary.
His mind worked faster than others, absorbing skills with the same effort it took to read a recipe. Others called it talent. He called it a curse.
He enjoyed learning. The rush of something new. The thrill of understanding.
But mastery? Commitment?
That was different.
Everything lost its shine too quickly.
Nothing ever stayed interesting.
The wind shifted, rustling the trees, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Sorr, are you ready?"
Auren's voice snapped him back to the present.
"I won't go easy on you."
Soren turned to face him. The wooden sword rested lightly in his right hand before he shifted his grip, bringing it up in both hands.
"Then I won't either."
But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie.
Auren grinned, his excitement shining through his stance. His grip tightened, his body lowered, weight shifting forward. He was setting up for a lunge.
Of course, Soren could see it.
Auren exhaled sharply, a determined fire in his blue eyes. He moved fast, his wooden sword swinging down toward Soren's temple.
Too telegraphed. Too predictable.
Soren raised his own sword, adjusting the angle—
A deflection to the side. A counter to the chest.
It would be simple. The fight could end before it even began.
But Auren looked too excited.
The blade came down, and Soren parried it off course.
Crack.
The swords clashed, the force shuddering through Soren's arms. He acted like he lost his balance, stumbling back a few steps. Auren, already pressing forward, didn't give him room to recover.
Soren retaliated, raising his wooden sword for an overhead strike—but at the last moment, he shifted. A feint. The blade dipped down, aiming diagonally for Auren's ribs.
But the strike was lazy. Slow.
Auren deflected it with ease, standing his ground.
His earlier grin was gone. Replaced by a frown.
Soren barely noticed.
He still doesn't understand.
The wild swings, the tempo, nothing's changed.
Winning would be easy.
They stood still, feet planted. Not far apart.
Soren lunged forward, aiming for Auren's chest.
His grip was too loose.
Auren's sword met his in a sharp arc, knocking it aside. The wooden sword flew from Soren's hands, spinning into the dirt.
Without missing a beat, Auren turned his blade back toward him. A single fluid motion. A final strike.
It slammed into Soren's ribs.
He staggered, breath catching in his throat as his knees hit the ground.
Coughing, Soren muttered, "I guess you won."
Auren stood over him, frowning. His voice lacked the excitement from before.
"So, you don't even need to try anymore."
His words weren't an accusation. They were disappointment.
Without another word, Auren threw his wooden sword aside, the dull clatter barely registering in Soren's ears.
He walked past him, not sparing a glance.
Soren remained where he was, kneeling in the grass, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. The ocean glimmered between the trees ahead, fractured light dancing across the waves.
The summer air moved gently, swaying the grass. Directionless.
Auren was already halfway to the house when Soren finally spoke.
"Do you hate me for it?"
Auren stopped.
He didn't turn around.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then—
"Hate?" His voice was quiet, firm. Measured.
"That's not enough."
He shifted his weight slightly, as if considering his next words. But still, he didn't face him.
"It's like God's mocking me."
A pause. A slow exhale, almost like a sigh.
"I despise you."
And with that, he walked away.
The weight of those words pressed down on Soren, numbing, heavy—like he couldn't be bothered to lift a finger.
And then—
It was gone.
The numbness drifted away, like clouds passing through the sky, leaving nothing behind.
A warm voice called from behind him.
"Hey, what are you waiting for? Mom made food. Come on in."
The tone was light. Carefree. As if nothing had happened at all.
Soren blinked.
It felt like a knife had been pulled from his chest—but instead of pain, there was only an old scar, long since healed.
"Yeah. Coming," he answered.
Later that evening, Soren made his way back up to his room.
And there it was again.
Or was it for the first time?
A spinning top.
Turning endlessly.
Yet no one had set it in motion.
Next to it sat a notebook.
Intrigued, Soren reached for it, fingers brushing against the worn edges. The pages were filled with scribbles, underlined words, and sentences written over themselves. A chaotic mess. His handwriting.
But one phrase stood out.
"Trust the steps. One at a time. Draw over completed. 'Ember' to forget after each step."
As soon as he read the word "Ember," a hollow emptiness spread through his chest, like a bridge had been burned to something important.
Soren turned the page.
"Guide the Ember, to end the cycle."
A shiver ran down his spine.
An echo of something lost flooded his mind—fragments, blurry and scattered.
Wait. This isn't real. I wrote these. But I forgot.
No. Focus before you forget again.
Yes—guide the Ember. To end the cycle…
End the cycle.
That's when the pull began.
A slow, invisible force, pressing in at the edges of his mind. Like fingers digging into his thoughts, gripping them, erasing them.
He didn't have much time.
His hands moved on instinct.
The pen pressed against the page, drawing thick, heavy lines over the earlier words—the ones that told him what he needed to do.
A sharp pain jolted through his skull.
A dull ringing filled his ears.
The ink spread across the paper, smothering the truth beneath its weight.
Then—nothing.
His breath hitched.
What was he doing again?
His fingers trembled, but he forced them to move. If he didn't do it now, he wouldn't do it at all.
A new set of words took their place.
He wrote quickly, his strokes uneven, desperate.
Step 1 – Turn... something.Mark it.
Step 2 – Plug in—no, wait. I need to—
Step 3 – ...Three steps. That's all it takes.
His vision blurred.
The weight inside his chest grew heavier, something deep and old screaming at him to stop, to remember.
A final thought surfaced, one that didn't feel entirely his own.
It felt like a whisper—like something left behind, waiting.
He pressed the pen down one last time, forcing the words onto the page.
"Carry me with you like an ember."
And just like that—
His mind flickered.
The page looked unfamiliar now. Like someone else had written it.
The only words that remained clear were the ones at the very bottom.
"Good luck."
He stared at them, feeling like they meant something.
But what?
His eyes drifted to the spinning top, still perfectly balanced, endlessly turning.
Why was he even sitting here?
Letting out a sigh, he pushed himself up from the chair, grabbed the notebook on instinct, and walked to the bed. He collapsed onto the mattress, still fully dressed.
He exhaled deeply, staring at the ceiling.
"What a long day."