He stood up, then looked down. Even his clothes had changed. Gone were the dirty, mud-soaked shirt and khakis, and hiking boots he’d been wearing. He was now wearing a clean, cream-colored, loose-fitting linen shirt and pants, and he was barefoot.
He also felt different. He couldn’t quite figure out why. He stretched his arms out, then arched his back. That was it. He felt no pain, not even any discomfort. All of the bumps and scratches and bruises he’d collected on his journey to the Tayos Caves system were gone. But it was more than that even. He checked himself over. Old wounds no longer bothered him and the scars that covered them had disappeared. As well, the pain from the impact he’d felt only moments ago had completely dissipated, like it had never happened.
“Hello?” he called out, looking around. “Is anyone here?”
No answer. The room was eerily silent. Not even the movement of air could be detected.
He started walking towards the bookshelves, but as he moved, it was as though the shelves came to him. His movement forwards and their movement towards him all blended together, as though it was all the same thing.
Strange, he thought.
He stood in front of the nearest shelf and gazed up. The books he saw were all bound in covers the colors of jewel tones with rich gold-embossed, bizarre lettering on the spines. They looked at once ancient and yet also brand new.
He ran his fingers down the spines. His fingertips tingled at the touch. At first, he couldn’t make out the embossed words, the language seemed foreign, but as he focused more intently on one of them, he felt his heart start to beat faster. It wasn’t language as he knew it, but rather symbols. The same style of symbols he’d seen on the metal tablets only moments ago. And their meaning was slowly being revealed to him somehow.
“I can read them now,” he whispered aloud a few moments later, wondering how that was possible.
He inhaled sharply as he realized with sheer astonishment that each book seemed to be a volume dedicated to a specific person or period of his life. His childhood, his adolescence, his education, various friendships and relationships, his mother, the Mato Grosso, and even a volume on the Tayos Caves—where he was right now, or rather where he’d just been. He was tempted to pick that one up, to find out how it ended, but a different book beckoned. Edward Braeden, his father. There was something he wanted to know. Something that had been haunting his mind and heart since... well, nearly forever.
He thought about how his father had left him feeling inadequate, that he didn’t measure up as a son or a man. A part of him still longed for his acceptance, his validation, a part that was empty. Rick still felt the pain of that stinging his heart—his soul. It had been a heavy weight he'd carried nearly all his life. He wondered what the book would tell him; if it would have any insights for him or if it would simply recount his painful memories. He needed to know.
Rick picked up the volume. It was heavy, far heavier than it appeared. He went to open the book. As he pulled back the cover, he felt a powerful whooshing sensation, like being pulled through a wind tunnel at a thousand miles an hour. It was as though he had opened a portal to a boundless energy contained inside the book, a force drawing him inside.
Then, suddenly it all stopped. He was standing in the living room of his childhood home. He looked around. He knew he should be surprised to find himself there, but somehow, he wasn’t. He thought about calling out for the others he’d just been with, Sofia, Luis, or Javier, but he knew they wouldn’t answer. Because they weren’t here.
He gazed around the living room. It was just as he remembered it.
He walked over to a hallway mirror. He looked at himself. He was younger, much younger. Only a teenager. But something in his eyes looked older, there was a knowing look there. Although it should seem strange to him, it oddly wasn’t. In a way, it felt perfectly natural.
He walked through his home, taking time to look at all the familiar things. It even smelled exactly as he remembered it, the familiar scents of home—cooking, fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, scented laundry detergent, old colorful afghans draped over the sofa and armchairs, his mom’s favorite lavender air freshener. He found it comforting. As he headed upstairs to go to his childhood bedroom, it was as if time was speeding up. But he could still clearly perceive all that was happening.
It was now only a few weeks after his mom had died. He recalled the profound sadness of the time and how he and his father had grown steadily distant afterwards.
But then, the feeling started to change, events started to differ from what he’d remembered. He saw his father, younger and healthier than he’d last remembered him. Rick simultaneously watched and experienced events as he and his father bonded over their shared loss. His father took every opportunity to spend time with him, knowing how hard he had taken his mother’s loss. Unlike what Rick had remembered, this time his father spent hours talking to him about their shared grief, allowing Rick to freely express his pain, his disbelief, his anger. Whereas before, his father had shut down and closed himself off, now he was an open book and accessible to, and accepting of, his son. Rick marveled at how the two of them grew closer over the months that followed. He felt like he had gained a best friend and mentor in his father.
Eventually, as time passed, Edward saw how Rick was gravitating towards exploring
