An Introduction
A Message to Fellow Travelers
Im not a historian in the conventional sense. I don't sift through dusty archives or parse textbooks for what's been deemed "the truth." My work begins where history as we know it ends—where the story diverges, and the world twists itself into something strange yet eerily familiar.
People often ask if it's all fiction. And in truth, the lines between fiction and reality blur the more I explore. I've walked through cities that are both like and unlike anything we've known, watched revolutions flare and fizzle in ways our own histories only hint at. Each timeline holds pieces of my story, reflections of choices I, too, have made or could have made. I write these entries not to alter history but to reveal the architecture of possibility that shapes us.
"What if? The question that opens doors to infinite possibilities."
This journey began with a single, nagging question: What if? What started as a personal curiosity became an obsession to explore every subtle turn history could have taken. Each timeline holds a fragment of my own story—a reflection of choices I, too, could have made. I've learned that history is as much about small, seemingly trivial moments as it is about grand revolutions.
Traveling through time demands tools as peculiar as the journey itself. My toolkit includes devices and keepsakes that blur the lines between science, history, and myth. There's the Chronoscope, a delicate object that pinpoints moments when reality split. And then there's The Journal of Fragmented Realities, where I sketch and log my experiences, fragments that don't fit in any single place or time. It's my constant companion—my anchor in a shifting world.
In one version of Florence, Italy, the Renaissance had taken an unexpected turn. Art and alchemy were indistinguishable, the streets filled with metal structures that pulsed as if they had life. There, I met an Artificer—a craftsman of strange metal creatures that moved like animals yet responded with a childlike curiosity. His creations mirrored his own loneliness. I carry a small piece of his work, a reminder that our need for connection is constant across worlds.
Each timeline I visit offers a lesson, though rarely the one I expect. I've learned that change is often born of the mundane, the overlooked, and the unlikely. More than anything, these worlds have taught me humility—reminding me that every decision we make echoes into the vast unknown. It's a reminder that our own history is still unfolding and that we hold more power to shape it than we might realize.
If you've read this far, perhaps you too have felt that itch of curiosity, that impulse to see the world through a different lens. My advice? Follow it. You don't need a Chronoscope or a journal of fragmented realities; you only need to keep asking questions and to step beyond what you know. You're not alone. There's a community of us out here—wanderers of possibility, seekers of "what if"—all traveling the edges of reality together.