The silence was almost offensive.

Not the suffocating silence of apocalypse ash or the eerie stillness before a temporal rupture—no, this was worse. Peaceful. Natural. Like the world, for once, wasn’t ending.

“I swear to god, if a squirrel sets off a paradox, I’m throwing myself into the sun.”

Five muttered it as he nudged open the screen door with one foot, balancing a steaming mug in one hand and a cracked notebook in the other. The Appalachian breeze rolled in, cool and sweet, tugging at the frayed sleeves of his sweater—an oversized, cable-knit relic from someone else’s closet that had somehow become his favorite. He wasn’t sure when he started dressing like a retired librarian, but he was leaning into it.

The porch creaked under his weight as he stepped out. Beyond the railing, a long stretch of woods sprawled in every direction, dappled in gold and green. His greenhouse sat a few yards away, glass glinting in the early sun, and the only sound was the occasional chirp of birds that hadn’t yet learned to fear him.

He sat down hard in the rocking chair, letting the wood groan beneath him like it, too, was exhausted from time travel.

No end-of-the-world deadlines. No violent bureaucrats. No homicidal siblings screaming in three-part harmony. Just quiet. And coffee. Strong enough to kill lesser men.

He took a sip, flipped open the notebook, and scratched out a few more frustrated calculations. Not for work. Not even for time travel. Just… out of habit..

“Retirement,” he scoffed, mostly to himself, “is just slower dying with better views.”

Still, he stayed in the chair. Rocking, sipping, listening. Watching the morning settle over his land like a blanket.

For once, there were no missions. No countdowns. Just a weird little house on a lot of land, an overgrown genius in a teenage body, and the deeply uncomfortable feeling that things might actually be… okay.