He found one day, quite by accident, that if he looked very closely beneath him, at the space below his feet, he could see time separated into sheaths layered one upon another, temporal transparencies that lay like vellum with a binding unseen, each softly revealing a section of moment through the all the others. It wasn’t a clock, or a box, or a potion, or a machine. It was an assembly of pages. A book. Once upon here, and there. And when, and then.
There was nothing of particular wonder keeping him where or when he was, he reasoned. Nothing as astounding as his discovery at least. And even so, he could always flip back through if he wished to return…couldn’t he?
So he licked his thumb, reached down, turned the page, and went on ahead…