Travel to Reality

"Between the Past and the Nightmare"

Part I

Manhattan. 2125?

Audrey stood in the middle of a wide, dusty street, crisscrossed with cracks, and felt an icy horror grip her. The sky overhead was an unnatural blue, but the familiar outlines of skyscrapers had been painfully distorted, transformed into angular, abandoned structures. There was no familiar hum of cars, no deafening cacophony of the city. Silence pressed on her ears, broken only occasionally by a strange, monotonous drone coming from somewhere above.

"No… no," she whispered, looking around. The buildings looked dilapidated, many gaping with black holes of broken windows. Billboards were covered in rust, and the few that still glowed dimly broadcast unfamiliar symbols. This wasn't New York. Or at least, not the New York she knew.

Panic began to rise in an icy wave. She had checked all the calculations a hundred times! Chrono-field polarization, temporal shift frequency, gravitational anchor calibration… Everything should have brought her a hundred years into the future, into a familiar, albeit changed, metropolis. Not into this… ruin.

For a moment, her mind returned to yesterday. She remembered walking these very streets home, tired after the demonstration but warmed by a sense of accomplishment for the sake of peace on Earth. The majestic buildings of Manhattan, propping up the sky, filled her with pride and reminded her that this metropolis was the heart of the universe. How she had entered the cool lobby of her building, giving a friendly nod to the prim managing doorman in his old-fashioned uniform, and had gone up to her penthouse – an embodiment of luxury and sophistication. In the elevator, her finger had automatically slid over the access sensor. Penthouse. Top floor. The building at 86th and Lexington – a realm of minimalism, cool marble, and soulless glass walls, through which Central Park was visible.

Sophie had met her at the door in a silk robe, a laptop in one hand and a glass of sparkling white wine in the other. “You’re all shaking,” she had said with concern and, without asking unnecessary questions, had embraced Audrey tightly. Audrey had pressed silently, for a moment letting go of the burden of being a scientist, a Jew, an American. Only the warmth of other hands. Only a feeling of peace.

“I don’t understand how this is possible,” she had exhaled after a while, in the kitchen, her forehead pressed against cool palms. “I saw a boy today… Arab, probably twelve years old. With a homemade sign in his hands. He was standing across from the Israeli consulate. Silent, not shouting slogans. Just holding a piece of paper: ‘My cousins are under rubble. Help.’ Do you understand? It’s not just empty words. It’s a cry of despair. They are buried under the ruins. And what are we doing? We continue to supply weapons? We vote for those who cynically call the deaths of these children ‘collateral damage’?”

Sophie carefully placed her glass on the marble table and sat opposite her, her gaze full of sympathy. “You bear no guilt for the place of your birth.”

“But I am guilty if I remain silent,” Audrey retorted bitterly. – “If I don’t try to shake this rotten system. If I don’t use my mind, my resources, my platform. I feel like our very time has been stolen, like it has been ruthlessly turned against us.”

She stood up sharply and went to the window. In her laboratory, in the center of promising theoretical physics, she had been analyzing the failures in Project Nexus — an experimental time machine that could rewrite the past, perhaps even save lives. But the failures had been stubborn. Streams of time twisted into impossible knots. Every simulation run ended in either paradox or catastrophe.

“If only we could go back one day,” she whispered, looking at the park. – “One day before the shelling. Before the rocket. Before the revenge. Before all this horror… Maybe then…”

She fell silent. Because she knew: one cannot interfere with the past. It’s not just dangerous. It’s hopeless. But what if time cannot be returned, but persuaded? Persuaded as an idea? Recoded as consciousness? She had to understand how this mechanism worked. And if she succeeded… perhaps she could save not only the past. But at least one future boy standing with a sign at the consulate.

Morning in the laboratory didn't start with coffee, but with anxiety. When the door scanned her retina and let her into the snow-white corridor of the Center for Spatio-Temporal Anomaly Research, Audrey already felt that something was wrong. The screen on the terminal flashed red: Instability in sector 4B.

She nodded to the duty engineer — silently, automatically — and stepped into the core of Project Nexus, where a huge ring resonator pulsed with soft ultraviolet light. This was the heart of humanity's attempt to change the law of time.

“Again?” — she muttered, pulling the tablet with the logs towards her. The numbers ran wildly. The tempo of temporal fluctuations jumped within the impossible. Yesterday everything had stabilized — they had even recorded the first successful loop 0.3 seconds ago. And today? Everything slipped, like water off plastic.

She sat down, staring at the screen, and automatically picked up her phone. Opened Instagram. A reflex, almost a tic. Unloading her head. With her finger, she scrolled through the stories until she stopped. She saw a face she hadn't seen in ten years — Genie Aronov, a girl from childhood, with whom they used to be family friends. And now — a Republican, four children, a rich house on Long Island, an Israeli flag on her avatar and — a story that Audrey read three times before she realized she hadn't misheard. “Islam is not a religion of peace. It is an ideology masquerading as religion to justify anti-Semitism. Hamas is not the Palestinians. It is a project to create a global caliphate. If you are a woman, if you are a lesbian — you are their first victim.”

Audrey squinted. She felt something old, rusty creaking inside, like a forgotten hinge on a cupboard door in her grandmother's house.

“What a bitch you are, Genie,” she whispered. – “You are constantly remaking reality to fit your paranoia.”

Yes, she knew there was nothing progressive in Hamas. Yes, she wasn't naive. But to justify the deaths of children, destroyed homes, collective punishment — under the guise of “protecting civilization”? She put down her phone and stared at the monitor.

Time, she thought, is not just an arrow on a dial. It's consent. It's an agreement. We have all agreed that the past has already happened, and that truth is what the winner tells. But if you can disrupt the flow of time — maybe you can tell the truth anew?

“Doctor Shapiro!” — the technician called from behind the glass. – “You have to see this.”

A new anomaly appeared on the screen: a short but clear signal — as if someone from the future was trying to interfere with the experiment. It wasn't just a glitch. It was a message.

She looked at the screen. And at that moment, a shiver ran through her, but not from fear — from hope. Or from the fact that hoping had become dangerous.

Thirty-six hours without sleep. The laboratory smelled of burnt plastic, black coffee, and fear.

“We did it,” Audrey said, not taking her eyes off the graph on the monitor. The resonator signals stabilized. A portal to the future — not hypothetical, not simulated — but real. She saw the energy curve: smooth as a mirror. The first stable corridor in time.

On the screen — 100 years forward. 2125. And if all goes according to plan, she will stay there for no more than 5 minutes. According to plan.

She turned to Stephen Hwang — her senior engineer. He was nervously biting his nail. His hand trembled as he held the pen. – You understand, – she said, – I could end up in a dead world. In a nuclear desert. Or in a temple of technocrats who worship artificial intelligence that erases memory. And you will sit here and wait for me to return. That is if I return.

Stephen nodded. — I set a time marker. In 5 minutes, regardless of the signal, we will bring you back. Even if the portal collapses. Even if you show no signs of life. We have a backup protocol "Extraction" that will work.

But the problem was that they didn't know how time here and there correlated. Audrey had been thinking about this all night. Maybe one minute in the future would equal one day here. Or vice versa. Maybe she would return and Sophie would already be old. Or vice versa.

Time was like water: if you tried to measure it with a  glass, it would still find a way to seep through your fingers. Even the best quantum models showed: the time corridor was unstable, too many variables. Even the density of matter itself in the area of the portal's opening could change the course of events. She wrote this in the observation log:

“Time behaves like moisture on porous stone. It doesn’t sit still. It seeks paths unknown.”

And this was the thought that kept her awake at night.

She remembered the scientists who had tried to do this before her. In the early 2000s — DARPA, the American agency for advanced military development. Then — the Japanese initiative T.M.E. (Temporal Mechanics Experimentation). One project was funded by the European Union. Another — by a mysterious Chinese fund with questionable connections.But the one who went the furthest… was, of course, Elon. The XChronos project, initiated by one of Neuralink’s branches, was initially disguised as “quantum flow research.” A temporal platform was built, hidden beneath underground levels of a facility in Colorado. It was there, ten years ago, that Audrey arrived — under a special contract and was granted a small laboratory in Manhattan. She hated him for everything. For the manipulation. For the NDAs. For forcing her to call the expedition an “investment breakthrough” rather than an “existential risk.”“Musk is just Trump with a rocket and Reddit fanboys,” she told Sophie. “Only Trump has Botox, and this one has an army of bots.”

And yet… he had money. Money opened gates. Even through time.

Sophie sat on the bed, wrapped in a blanket. The silence between them wasn’t heavy — it was petrified.“Are you really going to fly?” Sophie asked.“It’s not a flight,” Audrey replied. “It’s a jump.”“And what if you… don’t come back?”Audrey sighed. Approached. Took Sophie’s hands. “Then you’ll go public. Tell the world what was done. You are my voice — if mine ever goes silent.”They embraced. Long. Without words.

As Stephen initiated the protocol, Audrey glanced one last time at her phone. In that same Genie;s stories, there was a new post. It said: “Only Israel on this earth stands against the evil force slowly devouring the universe. Israel is light. Radical Islam is darkness.”Audrey smirked. “Or maybe the opposite. Maybe true salvation is to break this endless cycle. To understand how things could have been.”Time trembled. The platform lit up. And in the next second, she was gone.

Audrey snapped out of her thoughts, out of the life flashing before her eyes, and became aware of her surroundings again. She frantically reached into her pocket for her chrono-communicator. The screen dimly glowed, displaying… nothing. No connection. At all.

Her thoughts snapped back to the lab, the hum of the time machine funded by that same man… Elon Musk. She despised his narcissism, his obsession with control. But she loved her work. The chance to peek beyond the veil of time, to understand its laws, to even attempt to change the course of history… it was her passion, her obsession. Sleepless nights spent on complex calculations, on analyzing unstable time loops — this had been her life for twenty years.This, and her beloved Sophie.

Sophie was her closest person. And if not for the desire to save the world from injustice, she would have chosen her partner, lived a calmer life, not worried so much, not fallen asleep at her desk, not overthought things at parties, thereby annoying her partner. But Sophie understood and loved her still. She knew Audrey couldn’t be any other way. Audrey Shapiro, granddaughter of Polish Jews — survivors of the Holocaust — carried the burden of justice for the world. She wanted to change it. She believed that knowledge of the past could save the future.

She was among the first to volunteer for protests against police brutality and freedoms for African Americans. She stood at the front of demonstrations against Israel. She wanted justice to be everywhere and in everything, and she was ashamed of being white and Jewish — of what it meant, that by birth she was on the side of the world’s controllers. All Jews were like that, she thought. Even though she knew no relatives who ran banks or the world, and the Jewish people she knew who became millionaires had done so through hard work and not without discrimination, she still bought into the herd-like rhetoric of her liberal friends who said Jews ran the world and wanted to own it all. That’s why they’d been expelled from so many countries, and it made sense people feared them. And sadly, she had been born one — but would never again proudly say she was her bloodline’s granddaughter.

In the distance, muffled voices could be heard. Audrey instinctively pressed herself against a battered wall, trying to blend into the bleak landscape. She had to understand where she was. What had happened.

She heard snatches of unfamiliar speech, foreign intonations, much closer now. It definitely wasn’t English. The block she stood on ended and the road merged with a square.

She saw men in long black cloaks, like shadows. There were many of them. So many that it dawned on her — she saw almost no women. Finally, she spotted a few, fully covered in black Muslim hijabs, silently walking behind.

Then Audrey noticed something else strange — there were hardly any cars. Mostly scooters, bicycles, the occasional horse-drawn cart, and a few ancient, smoke-belching cars. Audrey froze. She was almost sure she’d landed in Morocco or Egypt — or some other North African country with a Muslim majority. But there were no palm trees. And… those skyscrapers. Disfigured, but still standing.Was this Dubai?

No. She recognized the silhouette of the Chrysler Building. Nearby loomed the blackened Empire State Building and the charred husk of the Citigroup Center. This was definitely New York.But where were the other people?All she saw were figures cloaked in hijabs.Why was everyone dressed this way?Why the technological regression?Was there a war?

Audrey’s blood ran cold. She looked completely out of place in this world. White lab coat, short haircut, exposed skin — she stood out like a flare in the dark.She remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with fully dressed Muslims in the recent past — technically, just yesterday, in 2025. They’d shown her no hostility. On the contrary, they’d shouted slogans with her, protested oppression together. She fought for them, believed in their right to Israel, to their land — Palestine.

Her silly childhood friend, Genie Aronov, constantly posted on social media that these people were barbarians, used their children as shields, and would definitely rape and kill Audrey for being a lesbian. Audrey had just laughed at her stupidity and called her a fascist. Time to cut her off, unsubscribe. These people were normal, peaceful, loving. Islam was a peaceful religion. Her many Muslim friends always said so. And unlike Genie, Audrey was no Islamophobe.

She decided to stay calm. The best thing now was to ask someone where she was, and what year it was. Stepping out from behind the ruined building, she approached a man and a woman in black when suddenly she noticed — three corpses hanging from a crane above them. She staggered back in horror, nearly twisting her ankle.

Where in bloody hell am I? She thought in panic, and decided to hide and observe this strange place first. Suddenly someone screamed something in Arabic. Audrey made out only the word “shaitan” — Satan — and angry shouts aimed at her.

A furious crowd of about a dozen people quickly formed and charged at her with curses and cries. Audrey didn’t need it spelled out — these were not exactly friendly Muslims. She bolted. Being a runner, and wearing comfortable sneakers while her pursuers shuffled in sandals and restrictive robes, she quickly lost them and ducked around a corner.

Reaching a half-ruined brownstone, she pounded on the door, pleading for help — but no one answered.

Just as the mob turned the corner, a little girl with an eye patch darted out of a basement, grabbed Audrey’s hand, and pulled her inside.

The girl said something in Arabic. Audrey didn’t understand. The girl led her to a wooden chest standing in the corner of the basement and motioned for her to hide. Audrey shook her head no when she heard voices outside. The mob was going house to house, shouting threats, looking for the stranger among them.

Suddenly there were footsteps in the house — someone heading to the basement. Audrey dove into the trunk — blankets, old carpets there, a tight fit, but possible. She climbed in.

She heard nothing but muffled sounds; like the girl speaking to an older man, likely her father. He asked something, then left.

After what seemed like an eternity, the girl opened the lid and showed Audrey a tablet. It spoke English aloud: “Where are you from? Are you a demon?” the girl translated from Arabic.

Audrey took a deep breath and typed: “I’m American. From the past.” She translated it into Arabic, but the girl just shrugged.

Audrey climbed out and looked around. The place was sterile, modern. No door handles — everything was automatic. There was a voice assistant, responding in Arabic. Lights triggered by movement. A fully robotized room, run by a centralized neural net. But despite the advanced tech — the air was thick with fear.

“My father suspects,” the girl translated. “They say you couldn’t just vanish — so you must be close. And my father heard a door open.”

Audrey typed: “Did you have to lie to him? I’m so sorry.” The girl shrugged again. Then translated: “The Quran allows lying for faith. I believe your only crime is being a woman. We are the same.”

Audrey stared wide-eyed, unsure she understood. Then she typed: “Where am I? What city is this? It’s America, right? And what year?”

“I don’t know what ‘America’ is. This is the Ummah. Year 2125. But the tablet said the most universal language before Arabic was English, and I figured it might help.”

Audrey didn’t understand anything.

The girl typed again. The tablet said: “I need to return the tablet. If my father finds it missing…”

Audrey smiled weakly and typed: “It’s not good to steal from your parents. Someday, you’ll have your own.”

Layla shook her head. “The punishment for reading any book besides the Quran is death. For reading a tablet — even worse.”

Audrey froze. She remembered the image of the hanged people — naked, bloody, beaten.

“What happens if your father sees you took the tablet?” The girl answered confidently via the device: “I’ll wait till he leaves for prayer. Then sneak it back. You don’t want to see what happens.”

Audrey wanted to ask more but feared the risk. She nodded. The girl shut the trunk again.

“The Future in Black”

Part II

The next day, the girl returned with a tablet and a piece of something resembling seeded bread and water. Audrey devoured the small portion hungrily, fully aware that the girl had risked everything just to bring her even that. She found out the girl’s name was Leila. Leila sat down beside her on the floor, and Audrey asked her:

“Can you help me?”

Leila nodded yes.

“I need to get to the place where I landed… so I can go back. Could you please go there with me? I’ll change clothes, of course, but I’m really scared. What if someone speaks to me in Arabic and I can’t reply—or I answer in English? Who knows what could happen to me, here?” The sight of the three dead bodies did not leave her mind.

Leila looked at her through a slit in her hijab with one eye. That eye was filled with shock. Audrey took the tablet and typed:

“Like we’re just friends… Friends walking through the city…”

Leila smirked.

“There are no ‘friends’ here. That’s forbidden. All conversations are recorded. Microphones—everywhere. Even the toilet is monitored. It’s ‘safety in the name of Allah.’”

“But… you go outside, don’t you?”

“Only with a man. Alone—never. Not to the store, not to the hospital, not even to a neighbor. If you go out alone, the Morality Police will stop you. You can’t joke with them. They can detain you for any reason. Walking alone, or worse—with a friend. Public beatings. If you talk. Even if you answer them. They’ll burn your tongue. And if any skin is visible—even a wrist, a heel, a finger—you’ll be punished even worse.”

Audrey suddenly imagined what could have happened to her if Leila hadn’t grabbed her off the street.“So you risked even more… by running out to save me?” Her heart cracked under the weight of a million emotions—gratitude, horror, outrage.

“How exactly do they punish people?” Audrey felt nauseated as she asked, suddenly remembering October 7 horrors she never paid much attention to before.

Leila lowered the volume on the tablet.

“Public execution. But not right away. They strip you, half-dead after beating you with rocks or sticks, tie you to a drone, and fly you through the city as a warning. For several days. There’ll be a hologram on the drone that says ‘Promiscuous.’ And then… they burn your body. Even though under Sharia law, the dead must be buried right away—they do it on purpose, so the soul can’t reach heavens. So, it suffers forever.”

Audrey covered her mouth with her hand.

“You… saw that?”

“Yes. In the main square. It happens often. Especially to women who refuse to wear the hijab or won’t agree to become a fourth or fifth wife. There's even a new law now: a woman can’t look at the world with both eyes.”

“What?!”

“One eye—gets closed at birth. A medical procedure. So, she ‘won’t tempt the world around her.’”

Audrey’s vision started to darken. She whispered:

“I guess you don’t go to school either, of course?”

“No. Studying is forbidden. A woman is a vessel, not a thinker. My mother once slipped up that some women were allowed to work as doctors, nurses. Well, not for the past thirty years, ever since our last president came to power. And since women and girls aren’t allowed to be examined by men doctor, we don’t have doctors anymore. You get sick, you are on your own. Don’t die. The women who once knew medicine secretly pass the knowledge to their daughters. But if you don’t have such parents, you’re left at fate’s mercy… Like me.”

Audrey kept looking down at the floor, unable to lift her eyes to look at the girl. This is what she did, with her own two hands, her own mouth, her own fight for Palestine -  her tolerance of what should never have been tolerated. Fighting against a phobia of what should have been feared.

Leila cautiously unlocked a panel in the wall.

“There’s a screen here. You can watch. Super quietly.”

Audrey sat down. A “news” broadcast played on the screen. In Arabic. But the visuals spoke for themselves: war. Burnt cities, signs in Japanese, explosions in Australia. The anchor spoke of “purging” the last remaining “kafirs” — pagans. Of “Eastern traitors” — Shia Muslims. Of the “infected” — those who perhaps remembered a different world.

“Where are the others? Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists?”

Leila looked away.

“There’s no one. No one left. They either left—or… they were taken care of.”

“Anywhere? In the….entire world? How could this happen?”

“I don’t go to school, but my brother told me that our history says we defeated the infidels or converted them to Islam. Who they were, what they did, how they lived—we don’t know. We only know they were soldiers of Satan, and Allah triumphed in that battle. We won.”

“So there are no other languages anymore?”

“Only Arabic. Everything before—heresy. A book in English means death, especially if you’re a girl! An old American flag—that’s the death penalty. I have an artifact…something my brother found in the tunnels…” — she reached under her mattress — “…but I’ll show you later.”

Audrey’s head was spinning. She tried to breathe. Then vomited. Leila brought a bucket.

“Sorry,” said Audrey. “I… I didn’t think a future like this was possible. With so much technology… and such horror.”

Leila nodded:

“Technology doesn’t make people better. ”

They sat on the floor, lit only by the faint glow of the tablet. Audrey took a sip of water, then put the bottle down and began speaking softly, as if afraid of scaring away her own memories.

“I lived in New York. It was a city… this city….here…. it was as if all humanity had gathered in one place. People spoke every language. The streets buzzed day and night. Skyscrapers touched the sky, and down below, between them, people sold baklava, pizza, Chinese dim sum… Sometimes all on one corner.”

Leila listened, holding her breath. The reflections of imagined people from a different world danced in her eyes.

“You could be anyone. A scientist. A musician. An artist. No one decided for you. No one told you what to do, what to believe, or who to love. We argued, fought, protested—yes, there was chaos. But in that chaos was freedom. Like air. You don’t realize what it means until you lose it.”

Leila asked cautiously:

“And girls… could look out windows?”

Audrey smiled slightly. Her heart ached.

“Girls looked wherever they wanted. At the streets, the screens, the stars. Some even counted the stars—like I did. I was a scientist. A physicist. I was working on a project… to travel through time.”

“It worked,” Leila whispered.

“Looks like it,” Audrey nodded. “But I didn’t know where I’d end up. I was looking for an answer… and I found you.”

Leila went silent, listening inwardly.

“What did girls look like… there? Girls like me?”

“Any way they wanted. With hair loose. Or in colorful dresses. Blue hair too. Some even shaved their heads and painted flowers on their skulls. It was… their choice.”

Leila gasped:

“Even hair?”

“Even hair,” Audrey smiled. “You could show the world who you were. Or not. That was your decision.”

The girl hugged her knees.

“I wish I could go there.”

“You’d belong there,” Audrey whispered. “You’re the kind who chooses light—no matter the time.”

A rustling behind the wall interrupted them. They heard a light, but distinct creaking of the floor upstairs. Leila froze, tense. She raised a finger to her lips, stood up, and carefully peeked toward the stairwell.

A man’s voice. Harsh. Dry like a desert stone.

“Why are you downstairs so long?”

It was her father.

Leila licked her dry lips and answered like a rehearsed line:

“I… I was praying. Then looking for a book. For a lesson.”

“What book?” His voice grew sharper.

“Hadiths. The Ustaz said to review the surahs.”

Pause. Heavy.

“I’ll come down myself. I’ll see what you’re looking for.”

Leila’s breath caught. She rushed back into the basement, whispering:

“He’s coming. Hide. Quickly. In the chest.”

Audrey leapt up, eyes wide.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes! He never looks there. He thinks it’s a ‘women’s space’—my grandmother’s things. Hurry!”

Audrey darted into the chest, pulled a blanket over herself. Leila slammed the lid shut and placed a textbook and sandals on top. Just in time — the basement door creaked.

Her father entered. Tall, in a gray kaftan, with a heavy stare that seemed to burn through walls.

“What are you doing here alone?”

— I was looking for ayahs. I’m not doing very well. I didn’t want to disturb you.

He glanced around the room.

— Were you talking to someone?

Leila stood like a stone.

— No, abi.

— I heard a voice.

— I was reciting surahs aloud. For practice.

He stepped closer, scanned the floor. His gaze slid over the chest. Paused for a moment.

— Your voice sounds strange, — he muttered. — Like you’re lying.

Leila didn’t flinch.

— I’m tired, abi. I didn’t sleep well.

Silence. He stared into her eyes. Then turned around sharply.

— Don’t you ever stay down here alone again. A woman has no business being here without need.

He left. The door slammed.

A minute later, Leila opened the chest again. Audrey carefully crawled out, pale as paper.

— I almost died from fear, — she whispered.

Leila managed a faint smile:

— Welcome to my world.

Leila was quiet for a while. It seemed like she was digesting everything she’d heard. Then, suddenly, she asked:

— Is it true that in your time… people defended HAMAS?

Audrey flinched.

— Why do you ask?

Leila shrugged.

— My brother said everything started with Hamas — or thanks to them. We have a street named HAMAS. And nearby, there's a school named after the First Intifada. That’s where they teach the boys… well, how to kill. Us — how to stay silent.

She sighed, staring at the floor.

— HAMAS was the beginning. They cleansed the Earth of heresy. And then others helped. Pakistan, Yemen, even former Frenchmen. And this country….America, you call it? … just gave up. It was too busy arguing over “freedom of speech” and “tolerance,” while we… — Leila waved her hand — while we were already here.

She looked up at Audrey:

— Is it true that people marched in the streets yelling “Free Gaza”? Even Jews?

Audrey felt something tighten inside her. Her face flushed with shame.

— Yes… — she exhaled. — We…I… I thought I was defending the innocent. Fighting for justice.

Leila looked at her with mild surprise. Not judgment — more like a child seeing for the first time that grown-ups can be wrong.

— You didn’t know what they were doing?

— No. Or… — Audrey swallowed. — Maybe I didn’t want to know. We argued in universities, made posters, chanted about “colonialism”… Then went for coffee and posted it all on social media. It was fashionable.

She covered her face with her hands.

— I was a fool.

— Not a fool, — Leila said gently. — You just… lived in a world where thinking was safe.

Silence hung between them, heavy as eternity. Then Leila added, almost in a whisper:

— Here, thinking is a crime.

Audrey lowered her hands. Her eyes welled with tears — but not from fear. It was pain — deep, quiet, ashamed. The kind that comes when the world you believed in falls apart, brick by brick.

— I lived surrounded by books. Articles. Smart words. We debated for hours: “who’s the victim, who’s the aggressor.” It was all theory. All so elegant. But I never saw anyone truly suffer from what we were fighting for. Not until today.

Leila listened. Her face was calm, attentive. There was something in her that Audrey hadn’t seen in university halls in a long time: plain truth.

— We thought we were moral, — Audrey went on. — We said we were fighting oppression. But we were blind. Or… maybe we didn’t want to see. Because then we’d have to admit that our “resistance” did more harm than good.

— It’s the same here, — Leila said softly. — Here too, they love saying everything is “in the name of justice.” That women shouldn’t think, because “that’s how it’s right.” That boys as young as six must learn to kill, because “that’s what’s needed.” And if you say otherwise — you’re a traitor. Or worse.

She turned away for a moment, as if remembering something.

— My brother… he was older. He said he didn’t want to “die for a God he never felt.” He was 14. They took him. I never saw him again.

Audrey’s throat tightened.

— I’m sorry… I didn’t know…

— It’s not your fault, — Leila said. — But now you do know. And once you know… you can’t close your eyes again, right?

Audrey nodded. For the first time in a long time — truly.

— I don’t know what I can change. But I know I don’t want to live in lies anymore. Not to myself, not to others.

Leila smiled softly. Wisely. Like an old soul in a young body.

— That’s already a beginning.

They sat in silence — two souls from different eras, bound by one terrifying truth and one hope:That even in a future built on fear, one can choose light — and maybe even save it.

"The Last Day"

Part III

The last few days, the air in the house had changed. As if the walls were listening. Leyla felt it: her father's gaze – now not just stern, but measuring, like a targeting laser. He had stopped asking questions because he had already begun looking for answers.

Every morning began with an inspection: under the bed, in the pantry, even in old bags. He would silently open cupboards and silently close them. Once, he approached the chest, placed his hand on the lid – and then suddenly changed his mind. He turned and left. And it was this silent "for now" that became the most terrifying warning.

That night, Leyla went down to the basement again. Audrey sat leaning against the wall, the tablet on her lap.

"We can't wait any longer," Leyla said. "He'll check the chest."

"When?"

"Tomorrow. Or the day after. It doesn't matter."

Audrey looked at her. She too had begun to change. There was no longer panic in her eyes. Discipline had appeared. Awareness. She was learning to survive.

"You mentioned some kind of tunnel. What is it?"

Leyla hesitated. Then sat down next to her.

"It was my brother. Not me. He was fourteen. He was... not like everyone else. He didn't shout 'Allahu Akbar' with the others. He didn't hit girls. He read books – from memory. He knew how to dream, and here that's dangerous."

She sighed:

"He said there were tunnels underground. Remnants of old America. The subway. The sewers. Old laboratories. They say someone lives there. Runaways. Not 'the resistance' – not fighters. Just those who don't want to be part of this world."

"And he went there?"

"He tried. I helped him pack his things. We thought he would make it. But someone informed on him. They caught him at the edge of the sector."

"What happened to him?"

"Nothing. He's just... gone. He's not on the lists. Not in the mosque. Not on the streets."

Leyla's voice trembled:

"Sometimes I think he made it after all. That he's somewhere down there, underground. Hears music. Sees women with their hair down. Maybe even... speaks."

Audrey was silent for a long time.

"I'll find him," she said finally. "Or those who know. For you. For him."

Leyla gave a weak smile:

"That's foolish."

"It's necessary."

She sat closer. A rare, unpermitted warmth hung between them.

"Tomorrow night," Leyla whispered. "He will take everyone to the mosque for the night prayer. A special one. I will stay. I'll say that my period has started. That forbids me from going out. They don't ask questions. It disgusts them."

"Are you sure you can open the exit?"

Leyla nodded:

"Under the rug by the chest – there's an old technical hatch. It used to lead to the utilities. I checked. It's still open. It's narrow, but you'll fit. It's dark, damp, scary there. But it's better than here."

"What about you?"

Leyla lowered her eyes.

"I'll stay. I can't leave. They'll find me in five minutes. I'm a girl. I'm Muslim. I have no documents. No face. I am nothing."

Audrey touched her hand.

"But you are light. Even here. In this darkness."

Leyla didn't answer. She just squeezed her fingers.

"The Last Night Underground"

Part IV

Audrey no longer felt time. In the basement, where the walls were damp and smelled of mold—as if ancient fears were hiding there—she had spent no less than two days. The hope of returning on her own had already vanished. Now she only waited for her colleague Stephen to launch the return sequence and bring her back. In theory, in that world, this was supposed to happen after five minutes. But the calculation of parallel time in the future had been incorrect, and Audrey didn’t know whether it would be a day, a month, or a year. She had to survive somehow.

Leila no longer laughed. She no longer spoke of her brother or asked about New York.

There was a worry in her eyes now that never left, day or night.

Her father had understood something. Perhaps he sensed it. His footsteps became slower but heavier. He no longer knocked on the door—he listened to the silence.

"Tonight," Leila whispered, handing Audrey some clothes. "That’s it. We can’t go on."

The clothes were black, heavy, like a shroud. Audrey struggled to pull on the long abaya, wrapped herself in a hijab, covered her face. The fabric felt suffocating, like a cage. Her body, weakened by fear and lack of food, trembled. But there was no other way.

Leila moved the rug in the storage room. Underneath it was a metal hatch—rusty, barely open.

"If you take the right tunnel, after a kilometer there’s a fork. To the left is an old substation. They say someone’s there. They… they’re not ours. Maybe they’ll help."

She fell silent, then added:

"I can’t go with you."

They hugged. In silence. And only in that silence did Audrey realize how much Leila meant to her. Not just a savior. Not just a child. A human being. Someone who still believed in good.

"Thank you," Audrey whispered.

"Run," Leila replied. "Just run fast. And if you come back home, try to choose me this time, not the ones who’ll make me an object, a slave, a verb."

Audrey lowered her eyes and held Leyla tight.

The tunnel greeted her with damp cold and a dull echo. She walked, stumbling, scraping her hands on the walls. Sometimes it felt like someone was following her. Sometimes—like she was completely alone in the world.

Alone. Like in the black womb of a dead country.

When she reached the fork and turned left, she heard voices. At first distant. Then closer.

Light.

Too late.

At first, there were three. Then five. Then… a crowd. Young men with beards and angry faces. Someone shouted in Arabic, making her hair stand. Audrey tried to run, but they had already grabbed her. The clothes hindered her. They threw her down on the dirty concrete, tore the hijab from her head. Someone laughed when they saw her short hair. They shouted what seemed like obscenities. Pulled at her. Someone spat onto her face. One of them kicked her in the stomach—so hard she coughed and nearly lost consciousness.

They tore off her clothes. Her skin burned from the touches, from shame, from horror. She tried to cover herself with her hands, but they tied her. She screamed, but no one listened. Hands were everywhere. Rough. Dirty. They didn’t touch—they invaded, as if they needed not to satisfy lust but to erase her from the face of the earth.

One after another. Again and again. In the pitch-black tunnel, under howls, under loud prayers blasting from a speaker. As if Allah Himself was blessing their fury.

When they were finished, she lay on the concrete, in blood and filth, like an animal after slaughter.

Someone said:

"Let’s take her to the imam. Let there be a trial. Public."

"Right. Let everyone see."

A crowd had already gathered in the square. In the center—a platform. On it—a wooden post where criminals were tied. They led her as if she were a witch. People spat. Women threw stones.

The imam raised his hands.

"Before us stands a servant of Satan. She infiltrated our holy city to corrupt our youth. She is dressed like a harlot. She has neither father nor husband. She is an enemy!"

Audrey just stood there, half dead, not knowing what was said but certain these people weren’t people. They were blood-thirsty monsters that were happy for this spectacle. Everyone had pain and everyone’s pain needed the satisfaction of seeing someone else suffer. They wanted her to suffer regardless if she was guilty or not. Just because they had control over her.

The crowd roared.

"Stone her! Stone her!"

“Silence in the Rift Between Worlds"

Part V

Audrey no longer felt her body. Only cold inside, in her heart. She didn’t resist. She knew—it was over.

Her public execution—by the very people for whom she had stood on podiums, shouted herself hoarse, cried, and asked how to help.

And it was exactly then, when the first stone slipped from the hand of a boy no older than ten—that it began.

The world trembled. Sound shattered into fragments. People froze, as if in slow motion.

She felt something pulling her back—into the womb of time.

Light, a flash like an electric discharge.

She woke up on the floor of the lab.

For a long time, she couldn’t understand where she was. Her body hurt. Her soul hurt more. Nearby, the time machine’s console blinked.

On the screen—the date: May 11, 2025. New York.

Audrey had returned to her body, but her soul remained there—on the dusty streets of a foreign future, in tunnels of horror, beneath the howls of fanatics and the laughter of executioners. When her body was back in her apartment on the Upper East Side, when the familiar smells of coffee, books, and shampoo touched her skin, she suddenly realized: home was gone. Home no longer existed.

She sat by the window and looked down. People had taken to the streets again. Colorful posters, Palestinian flags, slogans for "freedom" and against "oppression." Young, beautiful, shouting. The same ones she marched with hugged after protests, the ones who liked her stories.

"You don’t understand," she thought. "You don’t know where this leads. You shout 'freedom,' but bring slavery. You say 'progress,' but call us into darkness."

She didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Nightmares tormented her—flashlights, black hands, screams and laughter. Again and again she was raped, humiliated, suffocated. She awoke in cold sweat, trembling, hugging herself, unable to tell dream from memory.

One night she opened her laptop. She began to write.

She wrote about Leila. A small, smart, kind girl who saved her—and most likely died because of her. She wrote about streets named after murderers. About women locked in shadows. About boys that were handed guns at age six. About public executions. About how Islam, stripped even of a drop of humanism, had become global law.

She didn’t blame all of Islam—only its radical, dominant form, the one that had conquered the planet. The one that destroyed women. Gays. Free thought. Her. Her soul.

She showed it to Sophie who did not respond. Despite her silence, Audrey published the text.

At first—thousands of views. Then—silence. Then—hatred.

"You were raped? In the future? Sounds like a justification for colonialism."

"You’re just a racist. Something’s wrong with you."

"White woman’s fantasy. Get therapy."

Even those she had known for years turned away.

One day, mustering her courage, she came to a meeting of former “allies.” They threw her out. Another girl, wearing a “Free Gaza” t-shirt, threw cold tea in her face.

"You’re a traitor. An Islamophobe."

She was fired from her institute for “inciting hatred.”

One night, Sophie left without an explanation, no words of justification, “let’s fix this”, none. Only said: "You’re dead to me. Please don’t even try…"

Audrey tried to convince others. Somewhere. Anyone. But everyone was silent. Or afraid. Or laughing. Genie texted her with “welcome to the club, babe.” But Genie belonged to thousands. While the future was built by millions. Millions of brainwashed completely misled people, following slogans of free speech, tolerance and acceptance, that gave rise to monstrosity.

She reached out to feminist groups, human rights advocates, LGBT organizations. Wrote letters, articles, personal messages. No one responded. How can you stand for principles that hide a woman’s identify behind a burka? How do you accept monstrosities perpetrated against women and children on October 7?  Then what feminists are you? How can you call yourself human rights activists?

At first, she thought it was a system error. “Maybe social media is purposely not allowing my reach?” She then tried to take her crew back in time so they could see it all in person, but there was suddenly a problem with NEXUS.

"Maybe a time reset glitch? Or chrono-field instability?" she ran through possibilities, endlessly reviewing the algorithms that had taken her there. But the more she looked, the clearer it became: there was no glitch. The machine worked—just not to that place.

She tried to restore the specific frequency of the time corridor—the one that led to the bleak 2125. But it no longer existed.

"This is impossible…" she whispered, scanning the spectral data.

Once, the transition had been based on detecting time "loops"—unstable clusters of gravitational-quantum energy left by future events. It was by these residual signatures the machine “found” the time and place. She didn’t pick the date manually—it “tuned in,” like an antenna to a wave.

But now—the wave was gone.

Audrey used everything: spectral analysis, machine learning, synthetic time inversion models. But the cluster through which she had traveled wasn’t just hidden—it was sealed.

As if someone… from that future… had detected the breach. Found the coordinates. Analyzed the signal and deliberately created a field of isolation—not just shielding, but true chrono-protection: a pseudo-vacuum where past signals cannot lock in.

Only those who possess reverse chrono-plasma stabilization tech could do that—meaning, they weren’t just technologically superior. They feared the past. They knew there was still power there capable of stopping them.  "When history is silenced, the future echoes its darkest chapters."

"They found me. They calculated my appearance and sealed the access. Now no one… no one will see what I saw."

That thought became the final blow. Even if someone believed her—there was no way to prove it. She wasn’t just alone. She was the only one who knew.

And now—even time had become her enemy.

Every night she took sleeping pills. Every morning—washed them down with coffee. But the nightmares never left. One day, she passed a mirror and didn’t recognize herself. Thin. Hollow cheeks. Gray hair. Eyes that weren’t hers. As if they no longer belonged to a living person.

And one day, she didn’t get up. She just lay on the floor, stared at the ceiling, and thought:

“If I had stayed there—I’d have died. If I stay here—I die slowly.”

That day, she wrote her last letter. She didn’t want to leave a manifesto—only an explanation. She bore responsibility for the world’s justice. She...

“I saw the end. And no one wants to know. I wanted to change everything but ended up alone. Forgive Leila. Forgive me.”

She took the pills. Swallowed them silently. Lay down like the exhausted do—not to die, but to never wake up again.

When her heart stopped, her face was calm.

A week later, they found her. The room was silent, and only the computer screen was still on. On it—an unfinished document.

Title: "If You Fight for Women’s Rights—You Must Know Who Your Enemy Is"