Ethan plunged into research, spending days at the library and nights online, mapping his remembered history against current records. The disparities were subtle but stark: a 2000 environmental policy shift he recalled as sudden was now a slow evolution; a 2007 economic crash blamed on causes he didn't recognize; a 2014 tech breakthrough credited to the wrong firm. Every seven years, the narrative shifted, unnoticed by all but him. He tried discussing it with others, but they laughed or shrugged, leaving him isolated in his certainty.
Seeking insight, he visited Dr. Simmons, his old college history professor, now retired. "Ethan, good to see you," Dr. Simmons said, ushering him in. "What's on your mind?"
"I've noticed historical records changing," Ethan explained, showing his timelines. "Events rewritten every seven years."
Dr. Simmons frowned. "History evolves with new perspectives. What you're seeing is normal debate."
"No, it's more than that," Ethan insisted. "Whole events shift or vanish."
The professor sighed. "Your time in prison might've skewed your view. Don't let it overtake you."
Disheartened, Ethan left. On his way home, a flyer caught his eye: a lecture on "The Fluidity of Memory and History." He attended, listening as Dr. Elena Vasquez, a psychologist, explained how media and tech could reshape collective memory. Afterward, he approached her. "Could history itself be altered, not just our perception?"
She smiled. "History adapts to new data or values. Deliberate large-scale manipulation? That's conspiracy territory."
"But what if a system did it periodically?" he pressed.
"It's theoretically possible," she mused, "but it'd need vast control. More likely, this is stress-related for you."
Frustrated yet undeterred, Ethan returned home and scoured the internet for clues. On a fringe forum, a post by "Chronos" stopped him cold: claims of a project called "The Weave," rewriting history every seven years via advanced tech. The dates aligned with his findings. He tried contacting Chronos, but the account was dormant, last active two years prior.
Ethan dug into tech possibilities—quantum computing, neural networks—recalling Elara's capabilities. Then, in an online archive, he found a redacted report on "Chronos Weave," hinting at quantum and neural experiments to manipulate perception. The seven-year cycle matched perfectly. This was no theory—it was real.
Needing help, he contacted Sarah Thompson, the reporter who'd aided him against Elara. She agreed to meet, intrigued. At a café, he presented his evidence: timelines, the Chronos post, the report. "It's bigger than Elara," Sarah said. "We need airtight proof."
"You've got contacts," Ethan replied. "Can you dig deeper?"
She nodded. "Keep collecting data. We'll build this together."
With Sarah on board, Ethan felt a spark of purpose. The truth was out there, and they'd find it—no matter who tried to bury it.