Buck doesn’t open the door right away, there is a heavy trepidation in the air around him. The air itself feel somehow thicker.

  He stands in the cellar room, lantern set low, stone walls close enough to feel their heavy ancient weight. He lets the idea settle into his mind. A place outside the normal flow. A fixed point. Storage that doesn’t rot, rust, or forget.

  “All right,” he says. “Show me.”

  There’s no flash. No tearing. Just the sense of a seam becoming obvious once you know where to look.

  The air in front of him folds.

  Not opens. Folds, like fabric pulled back along a line that was always there. A doorway resolves, clean-edged and wrong in a way his body immediately understands as important.

  Beyond it is a room.

  Not infinite. Not mystical or magical. Practical. Normal even.

  A small warehouse-sized space with concrete floors and high shelves arranged with careful symmetry. Soft, even light with no visible source. No shadows sharp enough to hide anything.

  “This is the Time Locker,” Buck says.

  Yes, B.U.C.K. replies. Same place. Same moment. Every time.

  Buck steps forward instinctively and immediately feels resistance, not physical, but absolute.

  You can enter, the AI says. But the door will not close while you’re inside. Ever. Non-negotiable.

  “Because living brains don’t like being shelved,” Buck says.

  Because living brains get scrambled like eggs when subjected to non-progressive temporal displacement, B.U.C.K. corrects. I simplified earlier.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Buck nods. “Fair.”

  He steps through.

  The air inside feels neutral. Not warm. Not cold. Like a place that doesn’t care how he feels about it.

  “Okay,” Buck says quietly. “You said there were already things here.”

  Five, B.U.C.K. says. You put three of them here yourself. The other two were… entrusted.

  Buck walks slowly, boots echoing faintly. Near the center of the room sits a simple table. On it, spaced evenly, are the items.

  The first one hits him square in his chest before his mind even catches up.

  A Buck Rogers action figure.

  Plastic scuffed at the elbows. One arm slightly looser than it should be. The kind of wear that only comes from being loved instead of displayed.

  Buck swallows. “I think I remember this.”

  You named me after it, B.U.C.K. says gently. You told your mom that Buck Rogers always came back.

  Buck lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

  Next to it lies a photograph.

  Not printed paper. Something more durable. A much younger him and his mother, sitting on the shore of Lake Erie at sunset. She’s laughing at something he said. He’s mid-gesture, earnest and serious in the way only children can be.

  Buck picks it up carefully.

  “This seems so familiar, not a clear memory, but more like a ghost of one that is haunting me from the fringes of my memories,” he says.

  You also didn’t remember putting it here, the AI replies. But you did. You said it was the best day you ever had.

  There’s more about that day we can talk about another time.

  The third item is smaller. A sealed box, with vaguely familiar branding.

  “Those are—” Buck stops, then laughs quietly. “Peanut butter-filled Ritz Bits?”

  Your favorite, B.U.C.K. says. You said they tasted like victory.

  Buck shakes his head. “I must have been an idiot.”

  You were five, the AI replies. Your standards were appropriate.

  Buck sets the box down and moves to the last two items.

  They are different.

  The fourth is a device the size of a thick book, smooth casing, no obvious interface. Dense in a way his hands immediately register as expensive.

  Buck doesn’t touch it.

  “What is that?” he asks.

  Not yet, B.U.C.K. says firmly. Your current levels will not allow safe interaction. You don’t have the contextual scaffolding to understand those yet.

  Buck grimaces. “So future me problem.”

  Exactly, the AI says. Your mother told you to put it here and forget about it.

  “And the last one.”

  The final item is small. Personal. A simple metal band on a chain. No markings. No glow. Nothing special to look at.

  But Buck feels it anyway.

  “That was hers,” he says.

  Yes, B.U.C.K. replies.

  Buck nods once. He doesn’t pick it up.

  “So I can store things here,” Buck says, voice steadier now. “And take them out.”

  Yes, B.U.C.K. says. You also have a quick-access configuration. Ten slots for now. Think of them as… items you can call without opening the door.

  Buck smirks. “Inventory management.”

  I knew you’d like that part, the AI replies.

  Buck looks back at the doorway, the world waiting just beyond it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner,” he asks.

  There’s a beat. Then the AI says, perfectly calm:

  Because wax on comes before crane kick.

  Buck closes his eyes. “You’re never letting that go.”

  Never, B.U.C.K. agrees. Simply put, you weren’t ready to think about decades yesterday. Now you are.

  Buck steps backward, out of the room. The doorway folds closed behind him, leaving only cellar wall and quiet.

  He exhales.

  “That changes things,” he says.

  It changes survival, B.U.C.K. replies. Everything else follows.

  Buck sits on the edge of the bed, the weight of the locker lingering in his mind. Time to make some plans for the future.