Entering Infinity

I have always wondered.

What use is a regressor who eventually loses his ability to regress?

From a young age, I devoured countless stories of those who turned back time—rewriting their failures, reliving their choices, shaping fate itself. It was a power that defied consequence, a force that made the past malleable, a privilege that should never be lost.

A power to wash away the stones of mistakes and regret in the river of time, never having to worry about things being set in tragical absolution , never having to live with the regret of "what was done can't be changed" - never being shackled from head to foot by the words "time stops for no one".

The most 'ultimate' power for a human there could be.

And yet, in so many tales, that power was taken away.

Often in stories, a regressor's power becomes unreliable, weakened, or sealed away entirely. They are forced to adapt, to struggle without their gift, as if that is the natural arc of things. As if regression is only meant to be temporary.

A limit imposed. A punishment inflicted. A regression rendered useless.

I always thought it was foolish.

To strip away the very thing that made a regressor who they were, the very thing that enabled a regressor to climb the insurmountable mountain of time, remembering each step along the way for their future—wasn't that just a convoluted way to turn them into an ordinary person?

If the cycle ends, if there is no longer a return, then what was the point of the journey to begin with? A regressor without regression is just another protagonist fumbling in the dark.

But more than that—

Why had no one written about the opposite?

A regressor who never stops regressing.

What if the loop never ended? What if no obstacle, no revelation, no sheer force of will could break the cycle?

Not a power that fades, but one that binds. No limit, no restrictions, no eventual stillness—only an endless return, a life unwinding again and again, with no solution, no escape.

Wouldn't that be more terrifying? more interesting? more intriguing?

To fall backward forever.

To never reach the end.

To become something trapped between past and future, a traveller with no true present.

It was just an idea. A thought. A possibility. A... reality?

---

Para Logisia Mergisum

The clinking of cutlery. The hum of voices. The distant drone of the television.

I sat at the dining table, a plate of half-eaten food in front of me. My family was here—talking, eating, living—but the words barely reached me.

"—should've just asked me to buy it while I was out," my father said, shaking his head at his phone. "Now the delivery fee is almost the same price as the meal."

"It wouldn't be if you'd ordered everything at once," my mother replied. She scooped another spoonful of rice onto my younger brother's plate, ignoring his protests.

Across from me, my cousin peeled an orange, the sharp citrus scent cutting through the warmth of cooked food. My sister was tapping her fingers against the table, following some rhythm only she could hear.

It was familiar. It was ordinary.

And yet, I felt strangely detached. Like watching a scene play out behind glass.

I pushed my plate slightly forward. "I'm going to get some fresh air."

My mother glanced at me, then at my plate. "You barely ate." she said.

"I'll finish later."

A half-truth. I just needed out. Not because of anything specific, just the weight of something unshakable pressing against the edges of my mind.

"Don't be out too long," she said eventually. "It's getting dark."

I nodded, already grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair.

The fabric was soft from years of use, the cuffs slightly frayed. I hadn't even realized I'd grabbed this one— the same jacket I always wore, the same one I'd thought about replacing last winter.

"..."

A chill settled in my chest, as if I'd just noticed something I wasn't supposed to.

"Pshh..." I exhaled sharply and pushed the thought aside.

Outside. I just needed to be outside.

As I felt a headache coming — I took my jogging shoes from the cabinet and stepped out to face the weather, closing the door behind me.

The evening air was cool against my skin as I started taking in the outside. The sky had deepened into the kind of rich, dusky blue that only lasted for a few fleeting moments before night took over completely.

The streetlights flickered on, bathing the pavement in a pale, artificial glow. The neighborhood was quiet—occasional sounds of passing cars, the distant bark of a dog.

I took a slow breath.

I wasn't sure what I had expected to feel—relief, maybe, or at least a sense of clarity. But instead, there was only the same unsettled weight, pressing at the edges of my mind like a thought I couldn't quite grasp.

My feet carried me forward on instinct. I didn't have a destination in mind, but I wasn't ready to go back inside just yet.

The world around me felt too still, too alive in its silence. The cool air seemed to breathe with me, brushing against my skin in a way that almost felt personal, like it was carrying a secret I wasn't meant to know. The sidewalk beneath my feet was cracked, the stones uneven as if the ground itself was slowly eroding.

A small flicker of movement caught my eye: a leaf, brittle and brown, tumbling aimlessly in the breeze, spinning lazily in the air before it settled on the edge of the curb. It was the kind of mundane thing that would have gone unnoticed on any other day. But tonight, it lingered in my thoughts, a symbol of something slipping out of reach, falling away.

"Am I starting to go crazy?" I muttered, unsure why the simplest things felt so unusually significant tonight. The strange weight pressing on my mind was making me hyper-aware of the most ordinary things, like I was seeing them for the first time.

Wait, why was I talking to myself? That's not me... Something was off today.

I shook my head, trying to shake the feeling off, but it clung to me, growing heavier.

A stray cat darted across the street ahead of me, vanishing into the shadows between two houses. I watched the spot where it disappeared, a strange sense of déjà vu curling around my ribs.

That feeling again. Like something waiting just out of sight.

I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets and turned the corner.

And then—

Something caught my eye.

A glint of light, small and sharp, reflecting off the pavement just a few steps ahead.

I frowned, slowing my pace.

At first, I thought it was a shard of glass, but as I got closer, I realized it was something else entirely.

An [eye].

Not a real one—at least, it shouldn't have been. It was 'crafted', seemingly made of some dark, polished material, smooth and cool against the dim glow of the streetlights. The surface was etched with intricate patterns, almost like veins, twisting toward the center where a pupil should have been.

I see it.

A glint of light on the pavement, half-hidden in the dim glow of the streetlamps. Small, dark, round—almost like a marble, but too smooth, too deliberate.

I see it.

A second time, my gaze drawn back against reason. The shadows curve strangely around it, edges bending inward, as if space itself is hesitant to touch it.

I see it—

And this time, it sees me.

A breath catches in my throat. The street feels too quiet, the air pressing against my skin, thick with something I cannot name.

The eye waits. Unblinking. Unmoving.

You see it.

No—not see. Seeing is too small a word, too human, too safe.

You witness. You comprehend.

You are comprehended.

The space behind your eyes twists, reshapes, folds inside out. Thoughts unravel like thread caught in unseen fingers, tugged loose, re-knitted into patterns that do not fit.

Your name is slipping. Your voice is slipping. The concept of self peels at the edges, curling like burned paper.

The world is gone.

The [being] does not move, does not shift, does not reach for you—

It does not need to.

The air is thick with meaning, with words that never touch sound, with sentences that do not belong to language.

The shape of the infinite bends at the edges. The ouroboros swallows its own shadow.

The eye hums in your palm, radiating something deeper than heat, colder than cold.

The being does not speak, yet the words fill you.

A chant without sound, a hymn without melody.

All doors are the same door.

The threshold is a circle.

Step through. Step through.

Your body is still, but your mind is unraveling in spirals, uncoiling in loops, tumbling down corridors that do not exist.

Time fractures. The past, present, and future smear into one another like ink in water—ungraspable, endless.

The mirror is the reflection is the observer is the mirror.

It watches.

It listens.

It waits.

You are becoming something else.

Something closer to it.

Something that understands.

You try to look away.

You cannot.

You already did.

You never did.

The thought fractures, repeats, repeats, repeats.

The sky bends. The pavement breaks. The edges of the world curl inward, folding over like a closing book.

The chant grows, threading through the marrow of your bones, sinking into your breath.

Your vision narrows. The eye in your palm darkens.

The threshold lies before you, impossibly thin and impossibly wide.

A door that was never there.

Step through.

You hesitate.

But something pulls.

And then—

Everything folds.

Everything vanishes.

Everything begins.