The Silent Guardian — Chapter 16, Part 1: The Kidnapping

This installment continues The Silent Guardian Series. Previous: Chapter 15, Part 3: Baltimore.

Goddammit, there’s no way she can be my sister. She’s loud, funny, not nearly serious enough. She fills the gaps with stories, sarcasm, and an endless stream of questions—the complete opposite of me. Where I am quiet, she speaks an infinite stream of words. Yet, there’s something familiar about her too. In the way she refuses to let things drop, her stubbornness mirrors mine. As much as I try to resist, I feel a tug that makes me think maybe I could care about her.

After an endless flight, we finally arrive in Baltimore. The rush of airport crowds presses in from every direction. Typically, all this noise would wear on me, but right now, it barely registers. All I can think about is Jean Street. I need to get there.

We leave the airport in a cab. Clara tells the driver where to drop us off. When we get there, Xia grabs our arms. The familiar sensation washes over me. Letting someone else pull me through time is still disorienting.

The alley warps; the air shifts around us. Nearly everything is the same, except it’s a warm summer morning. July 7, 2015, 10:20 AM. We walk out of the alleyway. Baltimore is humming with life. Jean Street feels so recognizable, except I have no recollection of ever being here.

The street is the same as the picture I found in Xia’s backpack—the houses, the cracked sidewalk, even the faded street sign. I scan the area, expecting to see someone taking the picture. I do not find anyone holding a camera.

Clara, Xia, and I stand in the shade of a nearby tree as the scene unfolds. A younger version of me, a small, wide-eyed boy, walks down the street, holding a woman’s hand. My breath catches in my throat. That’s my mother. The girl, young Clara, clings to her other hand. They’re walking toward a car parked at the curb. The man in the driver’s seat must be my father.

I watch as the younger me climbs into the back seat, oblivious to the danger closing in around us. My mother tenses, something catching her interest. She pulls Clara back as two figures emerge from the shadows, rushing toward the car with terrifying speed.

An overwhelming urge grips me—to run toward them, to shout, to do something. My feet shift. Clara clamps onto me, wrapping her arms around my waist in a tight hug. “No,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Xia and I have already tried. We can’t do anything for them. We’ve already been here, and we can’t change it.” I guess the second law of time travel is immutable.

My entire body tenses. Every muscle is ready to snap. One of the figures comes into focus. I can’t believe who it is. My savior. My mentor. Philip. The punch of realization hits deep in my gut. He’s known. He’s always known.

Philip is at the center of my abduction. This man shaped me into who I am today. His lies run too deep. He knew about my parents and Clara.

The scene grows even darker as chaos erupts. The second figure—a woman—slips into the front passenger seat. Without hesitation, she raises a weapon and executes my father, a cold shot that echoes through the street. His head slumps forward onto the steering wheel, the horn blaring incessantly. For a moment, I am paralyzed.

Philip grabs me from the back seat, pulling me away before I know what’s happening. My mother screams, her expression twisted in panic. She shields Clara. The little girl peeks from behind her, frozen with fear, clinging to her mother’s leg. Then, in an instant, Philip disappears, and I along with him.

The silence that follows is deafening.

I stare at my mother’s happiness draining away like a punctured vessel. She will never be the same. Seeing her floods me with memories—fragments of a life I didn’t even know I’d lost.

I remember her scent—lavender and warmth, with the soft, lingering sweetness of vanilla clinging to the air between us. It’s the smell of safety, of home. I remember the warmth of her hand on mine, the way her fingers would gently trace circles on my palm to soothe me.

She used to hum as she worked, a tune I can’t quite place but feel I’ve always known. When she spoke my name, the world slowed down, her words wrapping around me.

I can see her sitting by the window, the sunlight catching the golden strands of her hair. She used to tilt her head when she laughed. The way the corners of her face wrinkled placed me at the center of her world. The image is so clear it is overwhelming. It all surges through me, bringing with it a crushing sadness and rage.

Anger burns in my chest with an intensity I can barely contain. My skin is hot; tears stream down my cheeks. I try to scream. The sound gets stuck inside me. My jaw clenches so tight it hurts. My hands shake at my sides, fingers curling into fists.

I try to scream again. Still, no sound comes out. The words knot in my throat, suffocating me. I’m locked in place, watching the pieces of my past shatter before me. In that silent, agonizing moment, Clara’s steady presence pulls me back from the edge.

Some time later, Clara leads the way, guiding us down the street to a small, unassuming house. Its worn exterior is similar to all the other houses on the block. “This is it,” she says, approaching the front door. “This is where we lived before they took you.”

Clara unlocks the door, and I follow her inside. It is an elusive dream. I walk through each room slowly, running my fingers along the furniture. The chipped edges of a picture frame, the worn fabric of a couch: each touch stirs something within me. Memories ripple beneath my façade, too faint to fully grasp but enough to leave me off-balance.

The pieces of my past don’t fit together anymore. The child in the car doesn’t translate to the man I’ve become. I am a series of fragments from different lives, none genuinely mine. I wonder who I am without the Phylax. I’m not sure I want to know the answer. My hands tremble, trying to steady myself against the rising tide of anger, confusion, and loss.

I try to speak, to force words out, but my throat locks up. Have I forgotten how to talk? Why can’t I make a sound? No matter how hard I try, the words refuse to come.

With a frustrated exhale, I reach into my pocket and pull out a small notebook. The broken Dalek tumbles out with it, landing in my palm. Its chipped silver paint and missing arm are no different than the pieces missing from my memory. I run my thumb over its scuffed surface, feeling the ridges of its battered shell, hoping to unlock something buried deep in my mind. When nothing comes, I slip it back into my pocket.

I open the notebook and scribble a quick message for Clara to read. I need to know more. I need to find out what else happened to me.

Her eyes reflect understanding. “It took me years to make sense of your abduction. I want you to find your answers.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “Let’s meet back here in two days. At sunset.”

Continue with Chapter 16, Part 2: The Renegade Commune. New installments publish daily at 5:00 AM.

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