The Nibiru Effect: A Time Travel Adventure

By G. Sauvé

A cryptic dream. A strange symbol. A magical ring.

Will’s life will never be the same.

Lured away from his life at the orphanage by the promise of a family reunion, fifteen-year-old Will Save unwittingly embarks on an adventure through time and space.

Catapulted into the distant past. Struggling to survive a dinosaur-infested land. Plagued by a mysterious shapeshifting ability. These are only some of the challenges Will faces as he battles mythical creatures in a desperate attempt to save a race of prehistoric humanoids from a deadly plague.

Avalon is obsessed with altering the course of history. If she succeeds, Will’s entire life will come crumbling down around him. Desperate to protect those he loves and reunite with his long-lost mother, he must accept his destiny and become the saviour everyone believes him to be.

Can he live up to his name and save the world?

Find out in this action-packed, pulse-pounding first installment in a brand-new YA series about courage, love, and destiny.

What are you waiting for? Download this book today before this timeline is altered and life as we know it ceases to exist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. Sauvé
• Release date: Dec 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463002360

G. Sauvé

G. Sauvé had an unusual childhood. He grew up in a straw bale house. He was homeschooled. And he didn't have a TV until he was a teenager. No wonder he fell in love with the written word at such a young age. He wrote his first book at fifteen (it sucked), and he now resides in Montréal, where he spends his days writing (much improved) novels and making puns.Pronunciation: G. So-veyWant a FREE book? Visit GSauve.ca.

Book preview

Dedication

To Mado, who first introduced me to Nibiru. Without her, this series would not exist.

Foreword

Nibiru—sometimes referred to as Planet X or the Red Planet—is said to be a large astral body that passes through our solar system every 3650 years or so. Its existence has yet to be scientifically proven, but many are those who claim Nibiru is on a collision course with Earth. Whether this is fact or fiction remains unknown, but I found the concept quite intriguing. I pondered it for a while before it finally dawned on me that the cyclical nature of the Red Planet’s trajectory in relation to Earth made for the perfect premise for a time travel story. After that, everything fell into place. Well, sort of. It took me five years to flesh out the story and outline the eleven books in the series, but, finally, I get to share my story with the world.

Enjoy,

G. Sauvé

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The Memory Organizer

The mysterious white glow illuminated the dark, cluttered attic. Will Save Jr. crept forward, each hesitant step lifting a small cloud of dust. His heart beat to the rhythmic pulsating of the cryptic light. He was no coward, yet deep within him, a small voice screamed for him to run. He ignored it and pressed on.

Will Jr. came to a stop less than a metre from the box. It was closed, yet the glow was so intense it seeped through the cardboard.

Light shouldn’t do that, muttered the teenager. He hesitated for a moment before continuing his journey.

One step. His heartbeat quickened. So did the throbbing of the light.

Two steps. His hands trembled, a perfect match for the beating brilliance.

Three steps. He reached the box.

It’s not too late, reminded the voice of reason. You can still flee.

No, muttered Will Jr. I can’t.

Something had drawn him here. It had started with his mother asking him to clean out the attic but had quickly evolved into something else. He had sensed it as soon as he entered the cluttered storage space. It was a feeling unlike any he had ever experienced. It had drawn him deep into the bowels of the dusty attic. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he had found it.

The box.

It had started glowing as soon as he neared it. And now here he stood, debating whether or not to open it.

What would my dad do? he wondered. He did this whenever he encountered a difficult decision. It usually worked.

Not this time.

He took a deep breath and carefully pulled the cardboard flaps apart. The light stopped pulsating and grew brighter. Within seconds, Will Jr. was completely blind. Eyes closed and heart racing, he reached into the box. He felt around in search of the source of the luminescence, but there was nothing to find.

The box was empty.

Will Jr.’s heart sank, but he kept feeling around. He was about to give up when his fingers finally made contact with something. It was a small item with hard, angular edges. It felt cold to the touch. Ignoring the shiver that ran down his spine, Will Jr. carefully extricated the item from its cardboard prison.

The light went out as soon as the item left the confines of the box. One moment Will Jr. was blinded by light; the next he was blinded by darkness. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim ambient lighting. Crystal technology was years ahead of the antiquated fluorescent lighting of the past, yet the diminutive size of the stone that hung from the ceiling left most of the attic bathed in shadows. Still, Will Jr. could easily make out the item nestled in his palm.

It was a wooden chest. The item was no bigger than Will Jr.’s palm and barely twice as thick. Two small hinges and a locking flap kept it shut. A pair of words adorned the lid.

Memory Organizer

What’s a memory organizer? asked Will Jr., his voice echoing throughout the deserted attic.

Hands still shaking, he unfastened the locking flap and opened the box. Within the padded interior stood eleven silver discs. One was larger than the others and measured five centimetres in diameter. The other ten stood at half that and were arranged in two neat rows of five. A roman numeral had been etched onto the surface of the small discs. The series began at I and ended at X. The large disc—Will Jr. assumed it was the memory organizer—was also engraved, though the symbol it harboured was different.

Will Jr.’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the two triangles that had been carefully carved into the metallic surface. The first stood with its tip pointing down. Its entire surface had been cut into the metal. The second was merely an outline. The two triangles intersected at the tip, forming an hourglass.

Will Jr. could not breathe. The symbol was familiar to him. At least, part of it. He tore his gaze from the memory organizer and focused on his left wrist. The symbol which had adorned it since his birth was still there. It was black but for the small inverted triangle of untainted skin that stood near the tip.

Will Jr. could not believe it. His mother had often told him his father had borne a similar symbol. She claimed it made him special, but refused to tell him why. Will Jr. had never missed his father as much as he did now. At the same time, he felt closer to him than ever before.

Perhaps Will Save was not dead, as Will Jr. had been led to believe. Then again, perhaps that was merely wishful thinking. Still, Will Jr.’s mother had never told him outright that his father was dead. But why else would he have been absent for the past fourteen—soon to be fifteen—years of his son’s life?

Will Jr.’s heart galloped as he fingered the memory organizer. He worked the symbol with such intensity that one of the triangles started to shift. At first, he feared he had broken it, but he soon realized the triangles were moveable. He spun the first one until its tip pointed upward. He then went to work on the second one. The two triangles were now inverted.

Nothing happened for a few seconds; then the flaps flipped open. The rest of the metallic surface sectioned into thin points and bloomed outward like a flower, revealing a circular depression. It did not take Will Jr. long to figure out the indentation was perfectly sized to accommodate one of the numbered discs.

Will Jr. retrieved the first disc and slipped it into the memory organizer. He watched, wide-eyed, as the metallic barbs folded inward, trapping the disc. Soon after, the triangles followed suit.

Nothing happened. Will Jr. was not surprised. He sensed the memory organizer would not activate until he rotated the triangles.

Please work, he whispered as he twisted the first triangle. It clicked into place. The second followed suit moments later.

Will Jr. waited with breathless anticipation.

Nothing happened.

Seconds ticked by and still the memory organizer remained dormant. Will Jr. was about to give up when it finally came to life.

A dozen metallic legs emerged from the perimeter of the device. They flexed and felt around as if looking for something. It reminded Will Jr. of an overturned spider, struggling to right itself. He chuckled, too stunned to be afraid.

The metallic insect worked its little legs for a few more seconds before finding anchor on Will Jr.’s hand. Using it as leverage, it righted itself and started scurrying around.

Will Jr. recoiled. The memory organizer flew out of his hand and soared through the air before vanishing between two dusty boxes. For a few blissful seconds the teenager was safe, then the metallic insect scurried out of the darkness, its tiny legs clicking on the wooden floor.

Will Jr.’s heart leapt at the sight of the memory organizer. He shuffled backward and slammed into an old dresser. Dust filled the air, causing him to cough. He watched through tear-filled eyes as the robotic insect scuttled forward. He knew he should be afraid, yet deep down he sensed the metallic spider meant him no harm. In fact, it advanced in a hesitant, almost curious manner.

You don’t want to hurt me, do you? asked the young man.

The memory organizer did not respond. It simply marched forward, nearing the trapped teenager. Will Jr. watched, unmoving, as the insect scurried up his leg. He did not even react when it climbed onto his left hand and stood there, seemingly staring at him with its inexistent eyes. It was not until it leapt onto his wrist that he realized his mistake. By then, it was too late.

Ow! yelped Will Jr. as the memory organizer’s legs wrapped themselves around his wrist. He tried yanking it away, but the metallic insect was too powerful. It encircled his wrist, its thin legs merging into a single band. Will Jr. would undoubtedly have thought it looked like a watch if not for the fact that he was busy struggling to pry the parasitical device from his arm. But no amount of willpower could keep the memory organizer from shifting its body so the symbol on its underbelly lined up with the one on Will Jr.’s arm.

Pain erupted from the teenager’s wrist as soon as the two symbols aligned. It felt like his birthmark was on fire, yet there was no heat. He tried to scream, but his voice was gone. Powerless, he watched as the memory organizer started glowing. Its brightness increased until it enveloped his entire hand. Oddly enough, the pain had all but vanished by the time the mysterious white light seeped through his skin and into his wrist.

Wh-what’s happening to me? croaked Will Jr. as the light slowly crept up his arm. Only, it was not travelling along his arm, but rather within it. Desperate to rid himself of the mysterious glow, he tried to grab it with his free hand, but the light slithered on, unaffected. It crept past his elbow and up toward his shoulder. It entered his neck and slowly rose toward his head. He could no longer see it, but he felt it progress through his body.

What would happen when it reached his brain?

No, he groaned as the light invaded his head. The world went white. Pain exploded within him like an atomic bomb of misery. He tried calling for help, but his voice, just like his vision, was gone.

Will Jr. was alone. All alone.

The pain intensified until, finally, it became too much for his body to handle, and he lost consciousness.

Will Save

I’m blind. The thought echoed throughout Will Jr.’s mind as he scanned his surroundings. There was nothing but darkness. No source of light. No supernatural glow. Yet, somehow, he could still see his body.

That’s weird.

Will Jr. was not afraid. Nor was he worried. He was merely curious.

Where am I?

He looked around once more, but there was nothing for him to see. Then why could he feel the ground beneath his body? Come to think of it, he could still sense the dresser pressed against his back. He glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing there.

It was all so illogical, so confusing. There was but one rational explanation.

Am I dead? Is this the afterlife?

Will Jr. did not expect an answer, yet he received one.

No.

The voice came from behind him. Heart hammering, Will Jr. jumped to his feet and spun around. Standing a few metres before him was a man. He didn’t look very threatening, yet Will Jr. kept his distance.

The man was a few years older than him. He had an athletic build and exuded youthful vigour. His beard stubble was patchy, giving him an almost dirty look.

Will Jr. knew he had never before met this man, yet there was something familiar about him.

Who are you? he asked.

The stranger smiled. It was a sincere grin, the kind that lit up a room. Somehow, that made him seem even more familiar.

I know this must be confusing— began the man.

Will Jr. scoffed. That’s the understatement of the century.

—but it will all make sense soon enough, continued the man, ignoring the teenager’s sarcastic remark.

He paused long enough to give Will Jr. another one of his broad smiles.

This will be hard to accept, he warned. I’m your father.

Silence. It was everywhere. Omnipresent. Omnipotent.

That’s impossible, finally blurted out the teenager. You’re too young to—

The man cut him off, though he did not seem aware of it. Will Jr. did not listen to the words pouring from his mouth. He had just realized the man was not real. He hesitantly reached out and waved his hand in front of the man’s face. There was no reaction. He tried touching him, but his hand went right through him.

A hologram.

The man was nothing more than a representation of the person he had once been. For some reason, that brought a smile to Will Jr.’s lips.

Maybe he is my father. His heart started racing, and his hands shook with excitement as he studied his so-called father.

The man appeared quite weary and rather dirty, but if you removed the filth and the unkempt facial hair, he shared quite a few similarities with Will Jr. In fact, they could have passed for brothers. Or father and son.

It was not until the hologram revealed his left wrist that Will Jr. suspicions were confirmed.

An hourglass symbol adorned his skin.

The mark was identical to the one on the memory organizer but for one small detail. The symbol was inverted; the top triangle was empty, and the bottom one was full. Will Jr. did not know what it meant, but he could tell it was a bad sign. On the plus side, Will Jr. now had proof of the hologram’s identity.

Dad, he croaked. His father’s hologram did not respond, but Will Jr. could have sworn he winked. It may have been a mere glitch in the programming, but Will Jr.’s heart swelled with joy.

Will Jr. had so many questions. Why had his father not been there to raise him? Was he dead or alive? And what of the birthmark? Why was it upside down? What did it all mean? So many questions, and not a single answer.

Will Jr. was so busy rejoicing he failed to realize his father was still talking. Suddenly aware the recording could not be paused, he stilled his frenzied mind and focused on his father’s words.

…I was not there to raise you, but please know that I love you more than words can describe, said Will Sr. as tears trickled down his cheeks.

We may never have met, continued the man, yet there’s a way for you to get to know me.

How? asked Will Jr., momentarily forgetting that he was addressing a hologram.

The memory organizer is more than a mere recording device, explained Will Sr. It’s a highly advanced piece of technology. The memory chips that accompany it contain a copy of my memories. Well, most of them. The memory organizer was designed to remove the unimportant memories and condense the essential, yet lengthy ones. It has also reconstructed the parts of the story for which I wasn’t present by creating new memories using the knowledge I gathered afterward. What you are about to witness is a thorough recollection of my life. I know it can never make up for the fact that I wasn’t there for you, but hopefully, it will help you understand why I did what I did.

There was a moment of silence during which Will Jr. realized he had learned more about his father in a few minutes than he had from his mother in the past fourteen years. Part of him resented being kept in the dark, but deep down he knew he could not blame his mother. Every time he had questioned her, the conversation had ended in tears. In time, he had learned not to ask.

I love you, my son, said Will Sr.’s hologram, interrupting his son’s musings.

I love you too, Dad, whispered Will Jr.

Moments later, a million different images exploded within his head.

Memory 1

Heat . It scorches my nostrils and burns my lungs. The wind howls, deafening. Sand speeds by on air currents, biting at my skin and making it raw. I don’t care. All I feel is despair. I have never felt this overwhelmed, this hopeless.

It’s all my fault, I mutter, my parched throat making my voice crack.

I glance at my surroundings.

A vast wasteland. Sand as far as the eye can see. There are no dunes, only sand. I look up and see it.

Nibiru.

The planet is so massive it seems to fill the entire sky. It bathes Earth in a cloak of red. The world looks bloody, deceased. Everyone I ever cared about is dead, and it’s all my fault.

My head droops in shame, and I see it for the first time. It glimmers, half buried in the sand.

A knife.

I reach down and grab it. It’s sharp. I cut myself and a drop of blood falls. I expect it to plummet to the ground, but the fierce wind steals it away before gravity can grab hold of it. I watch another drop fall. It vanishes as well. By the third, I know what I must do.

I must pay for what I have done.

I press the tip of the dagger to my chest and, clutching the hilt tightly, jerk it forward. It slides between my ribs, reaching my heart in less than a second. The life-giving organ explodes. I watch as blood soaks my shirt. There’s no pain. No relief. Only despair.

I raise my left arm and study the symbol I find there. It looks like an hourglass. The top half was once full, but now all that remains are a few grains. It’s all that remains of my life.

I count the grains. There are five. Five grains. Five seconds until the blissful release of death. I count them down as they fall away.

Five. I’m alive. Why am I still alive when so many have died by my hand?

Four. I no longer feel the heat. Only pain and regret.

Three. My emotions fade away. I feel nothing.

Two. My vision blurs. The last thing I see is Nibiru.

One. I’m dead. Finally.

Memory 2

Iawake with a scream. The cry echoes throughout the orphanage, but no one wakes. I sit upright in my bed, breathing heavily. My hands shake, but I welcome the feeling. It means I’m still alive. I press my palm to my chest but feel no blood. That can only mean one thing.

It was a dream.

I glance at my surroundings. Beds lie in both directions. It’s too dim to make out much more, yet I know in each of these ninety-nine beds—mine is the hundredth—an orphan is asleep. The girl to my right—her name is Angela—stirs, but doesn’t wake.

I pry the sweat-drenched sheets away from my frame and slide my legs off the edge of the bed. I lean forward and place my head in my hands. Eyes closed, I take a deep breath. And another. My heart rate slows, and the trembling in my hands ceases, but the feeling of shame persists.

It was just a dream, I tell myself, but I know that’s a lie. It felt way too real to be a dream. But what else could it have been? A nightmare? No. A vision? Possibly. An omen of something yet to pass? I hope not.

A distant sound catches my ear. I freeze, listening for a repeat performance, but whatever made the noise has grown still. I decide to go back to sleep, though I know the odds of that happening are slim.

I’m about to slip back under the covers when I remember something from the dream/nightmare/vision/omen. The symbol on my wrist. Just thinking of it lures an itch to my forearm. I scratch it, but the feeling persists. In fact, it intensifies. I keep scratching, but relief refuses to come.

What the— I begin, but the final word dies in my throat when the itch blossoms into a flower of pain. I wince, still scratching, but I stop when the pain grows so intense I can’t help but whimper. I stare at my wrist, half expecting the ache to take physical form. To my utter surprise, it does.

My wrist starts glowing. Thinking my arm is on fire, I shake it wildly. When that fails, I try to pat out the flames with my hand. When that also miscarries, I do the only thing I can think of. I close my eyes and wish the impossibility away.

Wishful thinking works in children’s books. In real life, it makes no difference whatsoever. I fight the pain for as long as I can before finally opening my eyes. My face contorts into a grimace of distress at the sight of the beam of the white light that snakes across my wrist. It doesn’t come from without, but rather from within. It’s as if an invisible pen is drawing something on my wrist. Only instead of ink, it uses light. And pain.

The searing sensation intensifies with each new detail that’s added to the mystery drawing. Tears fill my eyes. My teeth slam together with the force of a professional boxer’s fist hitting an opponent’s jaw. I want to yell, but my vocal cords have stopped working. All I can do is writhe around in pain. So I writhe. And writhe. And writhe.

It takes forever for the pain to fade and the light to evaporate. By then, I’m shaking violently. This time, deep breathing doesn’t work. I lie there for what feels like ages before the shudders finally stop. By then my voice has returned, but there’s no reason for me to call for help.

I slowly sit up, staring at my wrist. The light is gone, but where it once stood is a dark shape. I can’t quite make it out, so I reach for my nightstand. I pull open the top drawer and rummage through until I find what I’m looking for.

I click on the flashlight. Angela groans when the beam hits her in the face, but I cover it before she wakes. I slip under the covers and shine the beam of light on my wrist.

A strangled cry escapes me as I take in the all-too-familiar symbol.

I stare at the mark for the longest time before finally grasping the implications of its presence on my wrist.

It wasn’t a dream.

Nor was it a nightmare.

Or a vision.

Or even an omen.

It was real.

Memory 3

Istare , wide-eyed, at the symbol on my arm. Unlike in the dream, the hourglass is idle. The top half is full. The bottom one is empty. It appears as though it was always part of me, yet its mere presence is enough to set my nerves on edge.

I sit there for the longest time, staring and refusing to believe it’s real. Then I hear footsteps, and I’m reminded that I’m up past my bedtime. Somehow, the prospect of being caught terrifies me more than the symbol on my arm. I click off the flashlight and pull down the covers so my head is once more visible. Moments later, I’m pretending to sleep.

The footsteps echo throughout the orphanage. A few of my fellow orphans shift in their sleep, but none wake. I lay there, unmoving. My heart beats so hard I can barely think straight. It takes all I have just to figure out that whoever is making their way across the dormitory must have seen my flashlight.

Please don’t let them know it was me, I silently implore. I don’t believe in God—no orphan who’s old enough to grasp the concept of a higher power does—yet I pray to him.

The footsteps keep coming.

I hope it’s not Miss McAlister, I mutter. Please don’t let it be Miss McAlister.

Miss McAlister is a good woman at heart but a horrible person to deal with. She devotes all of her time to keeping the orphanage running smoothly, yet she hates children. She gives empowering speeches to keep the staff motivated but turns into a crone as soon as she must interact with the orphans. Now and then she’s forced to cover for a sick staff member, and whenever that happens, we’re on our best behaviour. No one knows what would happen if Miss McAlister caught us breaking the rules, but I don’t plan on being the one to find out.

I almost jump out of my skin when a voice emerges from the darkness.

Shut up! growls Angela. You’ll get us in trouble.

I guess the beam of light to the face woke her after all. I want to apologize, but I know that will only make things worse, so I keep my mouth shut and listen to the sound of approaching footsteps.

The repeated slamming of shoes against concrete is both terrifying and oddly soothing. I focus on it and soon find myself drifting off, my mind wandering back to my past.

The orphanage is all I have ever known. I never knew my parents, yet I can’t help missing them every day. When I was young, I spent my days sitting by the orphanage window, praying for them to return. Every couple that passed made my heart flutter. The sound of the front door opening brought me running to the entrance hall. At school, I felt like an outcast. The only ray of sunshine in my otherwise bleak existence was Grace. She was my best friend, my only friend.

Years passed, and I grew up. Grace and I were still close, but everything else had changed. I no longer expected my parents to rescue me from the orphanage. Nor did I expect to be adopted—if that was meant to happen, it would have occurred when I was still young and cute. I accepted my fate. I tried making friends, but no one understood me. Boys my age spent their days talking about girls and cars. I preferred quiet contemplation. I pictured my life as it would have been had my parents kept me. I imagined myself growing up to be something. A husband. A father—I promised myself that when the day finally came, I would be the best father there ever was. I could hardly wait for the day when I would get to meet my child and tell them how much I loved them.

I’m interrupted in my musings by the sudden cessation of footsteps. I crack open an eyelid and scan my surroundings.

A shadow stands at the foot of my bed. The light is too dim to make out features, but the outline leaves no doubt in my mind that the newcomer is a woman.

Miss McAlister. Given my recent string of bad luck—the mysterious dream, the magical light, the enigmatic symbol—it can be no one else. I reseal my eyelid and wait for her to go away.

She doesn’t move.

After what feels like an eternity, Miss McAlister whispers my name. Only it is not Miss McAlister.

Grace? I ask, bolting upright in my bed. Angela breathes a sigh of relief, but I ignore her. I’m too relieved to care about my fellow orphans.

What are you doing here? I ask.

Grace shushes me, then gestures for me to follow her.

I slip out of bed. The concrete floor feels cold against my bare feet, but I welcome the chill that spiders up my spine. It’s a nice change of pace from all that heat and pain.

Get dressed, urges Grace. We may be gone a while.

I do as I’m told. Moments later, I’m fully dressed. Almost immediately I regret not removing my sweat-drenched pyjamas, but it’s too late for that now. I follow Grace out of the dormitory, doing my best to keep my sneakers from squeaking on the concrete floor.

I’m momentarily blinded by the light that fills the main hallway, but I forget all about it when I notice Grace heading toward the kitchen. I hurry after her and catch up just as we reach our destination.

It’s the middle of the night, so the kitchen is deserted. Stainless steel counters and shiny pots hanging from hooks make up most of the décor. Four stoves, five microwave ovens, and six sinks are scattered throughout the room. To my left lies a walk-in fridge. In the far right corner stands a small table with a couple of chairs.

What are we doing here? I ask, making sure that my sleeve covers the symbol on my arm. The last thing I need right now is Grace asking questions I can’t answer.

You’ll see soon enough, she says as she grabs my hand and leads me to the table. Close your eyes, she adds once I’m seated. It’s a surprise.

I hesitate. I normally enjoy a good surprise, but so much has happened in the last few minutes I fear I may not be able to handle another revelation. Unfortunately, refusing to comply with Grace’s request would only complicate things.

I cover my eyes, but not before taking a moment to study her. She’s beautiful. Her hair is long and hazel-coloured. Her lips are drawn back in an ever-present smile. Her eyes twinkle with joy. She wears a plain t-shirt and torn jeans. To most, she’s just another beautiful woman, but to me, she’s the personification of all that’s good. She’s the closest thing I have ever had to a mother, and I love her with all my heart.

Grace gets to work as soon as my eyes are closed. I hear her shuffle around. I can make out the distinct sound of plates grinding together and the ding of utensils hitting the wooden surface before me. I also hear a grating, explosive sound, yet I don’t recognize it until I’m finally allowed to open my eyes.

A small, frosted cake stands before me, fifteen candles burning brightly atop it. It takes a moment before I remember something important.

It’s my birthday!

Memory 4

It’s my birthday. Most people would be excited. Not me. What’s the point of celebrating the day of my birth when my parents didn’t care enough about me to raise me? It only serves as a reminder that another year has gone by. At least, it would if Grace wasn’t there to pull me out of my slump.

Happy birthday, Will, she says and places a loving kiss on my forehead.

Thanks, I mutter. I’m not thanking her for the cake. I’m thanking her for being my friend, for being the only person in this whole wide world who understands me.

What are you waiting for? asks Grace. Make a wish.

I hesitate. I always make the same wish, and it never comes true. Perhaps this year will be different.

I wish to be reunited with my parents. The words echo throughout my mind as I blow out the candles.

It’s official. I’m fifteen years old.

Grace cuts a piece of cake and places it before me. I barely take the time to thank her before severing a large portion with my fork and shoving it into my mouth.

Aren’t you hungry? I ask when I notice her staring at me.

She shakes her head. I’m too excited to eat.

Why?

Her smile is so broad the edges of her mouth nearly reach her ears.

This is a special birthday.

It is?

She nods.

Why? I ask. I’m just one year older.

She ignores my pessimism, which isn’t like her.

I have a present for you.

I’m so stunned I nearly choke. Never before has Grace—or anyone else, for that matter—given me a present.

A present?

She nods.

I’ve been waiting for this day ever since you first arrived, she explains.

Why?

Because today is the day I finally get to give you this. She reveals a small gift-wrapped box and hands it to me.

I take it, my hands shaking with excitement. It weighs almost nothing.

What is it?

I don’t know, admits Grace.

What? How can you—

It’s not from me.

I hesitate, sensing my life is about to change forever. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore.

Who’s it from?

Grace smiles then speaks the two most unexpected words in the English language.

Your mother.

Memory 5

My mother?" I ask, incredulous.

Grace nods.

I stare at the wrapped present, desperate to believe it’s true, that my mother left this for me the day she gave me up. But why? Why give me up? Why leave this for me? And why did Grace wait this long to give it to me?

Have I ever told you the story of how I found you? asks Grace.

I shake my head, too numb to speak.

She speaks in French. I don’t mind. I have always had a knack for languages. When I was seven, I learned Spanish in less than a week. By age ten, I could speak five languages. Now, I’m fluent in over a dozen dialects, though if I tried, I could probably double that number in less than a year. Grace says it’s unusual, but all I have to do is listen and, before long, the words take on meanings and come together to form phrases. After that, it’s only a matter of practice.

"C’était il y a un peu moins de quinze ans," begins Grace, but I stop noticing which language she speaks after just a few words. To me, it’s all the same. It was a dark, starless night. I was locking up for the night when I heard a baby crying.

Sensing this will be a long story, I carefully place my mother’s present on the table.

I opened the door, continues Grace, The wind blew strong that night, and I had to struggle just to keep the door from flying out of my hands. I was fighting its pull when I spotted it.

What? What did you see?

A box. Nestled within it was a baby.

Me? I ask.

Grace nods.

You were so small. You couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. Her eyes twinkle as she speaks. Tucked between your swaddled body and the wall of the box were two items. The first was a small wooden box. The second was a letter. It was addressed to ‘whoever finds my son.’

What did it say?

Why don’t you read it and find out for yourself? she offers, revealing a yellowed sheet of paper. It’s old but perfectly preserved.

I reach out with trembling hands and carefully unfold it. It’s a short, handwritten note.

This is my son, Will Save. He is all I have left in this world. I don’t want to give him up, but I have no choice. It’s the only way I can keep him safe. Please tell him I love him and make sure he gets this box when he turns fifteen. It may well save his life.

—A.

By the time I’m done reading the letter, tears are streaming down my cheeks. I can’t believe how much I learned in that one short paragraph. Not only do I now have proof my mother didn’t want to give me up, but I also know her name starts with an A. It’s not much, but it’s more than I ever expected to uncover.

I re-read the letter. Twice. It’s not until the third passage that I notice there’s something written on the back. It’s a detailed list of instructions. For some reason, I was to receive that mysterious box within the hour following my fifteenth birthday. It also specifies I not be told of its existence until then. The last line is a set of numbers. It takes a moment before I realize it’s my exact date and time of birth. Apparently, I was born at 12:01 AM.

I glance at the nearby clock. It’s 12:18 AM, which means Grace succeeded in fulfilling my mother’s request. It also means the appearance of the yet unidentified symbol that now mars my left wrist coincided with my exact time