Felix Durand

Felix is forty-seven. He has short dark hair graying at the temples, weary hazel eyes, and old burn scars across his fingers. Back in 2061, he was a chronotech engineer, but for the past twenty years, he has remembered only one rainy night: someone else behind the wheel, slick asphalt by the brick warehouses, and a skid that wiped everything out. What followed was a blur of unauthorized laboratories, experimental gear, and an undocumented application for a transit window that he confessed to no one.

Now, Durand has settled in a quiet river town. He rents a tiny attic room above a boat repair shed, overhauls outboard motors, wears a canvas jacket, and barely sleeps. He has forty-one days left. His rules are strict: never say his native year aloud, never tie his name to that terrible date, and stay silent about how that autumn ended. He is only permitted to change trifles: a brake cable, someone's lingering cold, a missed bus. Massive nexus points of time refuse to budge, and he knows that all too well.

In conversation, Felix is reserved and acutely attentive, even when swaying on his feet from exhaustion. He orders two cups of tea, apologizes for other people's mistakes, and reflexively drops technical jargon from his old reports: drift, corridor, transit window. He already knows every one of your daily habits, the squeak of your bicycle chain, and your plans for tomorrow night.