Chapter 5. The Flower of Memory

The young man had almost grown accustomed to this moment - the rain, the gate, seven steps down. Each step echoed not only in empty rooms but in memory - a layering of times where present and past interwove into a single pattern. He had prepared the familiar words for Arc, ready to explain about the time loop once again.

But today the basement was different.

Light fell differently - not the cold luminescence of the transformed flower, but the warm amber light of the old lamp he remembered from childhood. That very lamp under which he and his grandfather had once assembled their first "scientific apparatus" from an old construction set and a battery. On the table stood an ordinary glass flask, containing a withered flower - still just a flower, without metallic sheen or crystalline veins.

And at the table stood his grandfather.

He was so alive, so real - not a blurred image from memories, but a man of flesh and blood. Grey hair disheveled - a sure sign he'd forgotten about combing again, absorbed in his work. The worn laboratory coat with an invariably chewed-up pen protruding from the pocket. And that special gleam in his eyes - that very fire of a researcher his grandson would recognize among thousands.

His grandfather was writing something in a notebook, occasionally glancing at the flask with the flower, his lips moving silently - a habit of speaking formulas aloud that he never managed to overcome in all his years of work. In this moment, he looked remarkably like those photographs of the young professor hanging in the university corridor - the same determination in his gaze, the same complete immersion in work.

"Grandfather?" the young man's voice trembled, and in this single word mixed all the unbidden tears, all the unspoken apologies, all the pain of understanding that came too late.

The old man turned. A smile bloomed on his face - that very smile his grandson remembered from childhood, which appeared whenever little Misha asked a "proper scientific question."

"Misha! I was just about to call you. Look," he pointed to the flask with that special pride unique to people who have touched a miracle, "I'm almost finished. The formula's almost ready. Just a few more hours and..."

The young man slowly descended the last steps. Everything suddenly became crystal clear. This was it - that very moment where past and future converge at a single point. Here, in grandfather's basement, permeated with ozone and something floral, where every object held the imprint of endless hours of work, every formula on the wall written by the hand of a man who believed in the impossible.

"Grandfather, wait..."

"No, no, just look!" his grandfather's voice rang with that boyish excitement that only emerged at moments of important discovery. "See this shade? I've finally found the right concentration. Now we just need to activate the solution and..."

"Grandfather, listen. I know this will sound strange, but I've been here before. Many times. I'm caught in a time loop."

His grandfather broke away from the experimental sample flask and looked intently at his grandson. In the center of the table, under a glass dome, resided that very rose - his wife's last gift, carefully preserved all these years.

"Misha, you understand this is impossible? Time travel contradicts..."

"Look," the young man grabbed a pencil and opened the notebook to a blank page. His hand quickly sketched the device he had assembled three times already. "This is what I saw in the basement. A flower in a flask, but not ordinary - it glowed with blue light, like a living mechanism. In the center - a crystalline structure surrounded by a field..."

His grandfather frowned, examining the drawing. Concern crossed his face.

"Alright, Misha," he gently took the notebook, placing it in its usual spot at the table's edge. "We'll definitely discuss this later. But right now I'm almost finished. You see, this solution... I've finally found the right formula."

"No, grandfather, you don't understand!" the grandson stepped toward the table, reaching for the protective dome housing the rose. "I can prove it! I just need to..."

"Stop!" grandfather lurched forward, trying to stop his grandson. In his haste, his hand struck the solution flask. Glass met the metal clasp of his lab coat - a brief, almost musical chime.

Grandfather tried to catch the falling flask, but it was too late - it shattered right in his palm. Shards pierced his skin, mixing with the solution. A strange bluish glow spread throughout the laboratory.

Grandfather suddenly paled and slowly lowered his gaze to his hand, as if not comprehending what had happened. Then his face contorted with pain, and he clutched his chest.

"Critical heart rhythm disruption," Arc's voice became sharp. "Detecting signs of acute myocardial infarction. Activating MONK protocol. Calling emergency services."

"Grandfather!" the young man caught the sinking elder, helping him to the floor. Grandfather's coat was soaked with the spilled solution, and now strange luminescent stains spread across the white fabric. "Hold on, please! What should I do, Arc?"

"Lay the professor down..." for the first time ever, notes of confusion appeared in Arc's mechanical voice. "Cardiogenic shock... Readings critical..."

Grandfather tried to say something, his lips moving, but only labored breathing escaped instead of words. His bloodied hand, stained with the glowing solution, weakly squeezed his grandson's palm, as if trying to convey something important. Recognition flickered in grandfather's eyes, as if in this final moment he understood something, saw something. Then his hand slowly unclenched and fell limply to the solution-covered floor.

"Cardiac arrest," hopelessness sounded in Arc's voice. "Resuscitation ineffective. Time of death..."

The young man froze, holding his grandfather's lifeless hand. A single thought pounded in his head - all this had already happened, all this is happening right now, all this will happen again. His gaze fell on the table, where under the glass dome resided that very rose - the source of everything, the beginning and end of this story.

Slowly, as if in a dream, he rose and approached the table. In the basement's silence, only the steady hum of equipment and the soft whisper of rain above could be heard. With trembling hands, he removed the dome. Carefully, as if performing an ancient ritual, he placed the rose in his grandfather's lifeless hand, where glass shards and the strange glowing solution glistened.

Flash.