Entry 01 — November 2, 2025
I was never supposed to see the Sahara again. After twelve years of studying temporal particle behavior at MIT and three failed missions with the Chronos Initiative, I’d resigned myself to lab data and equations. But when the NASA geospatial unit flagged an anomaly in southern Algeria—a perfect metallic reflection, 80 kilometers off known flight paths—they called me first.
The coordinates pointed to Tanezrouft, the “Land of Thirst,” one of the most lifeless regions on Earth. No metal should shine there. Yet the satellite images showed a fuselage—cylindrical, sleek, almost intact.
At first we thought it was debris from Flight 9185, which vanished over the Atlantic six months ago. Then the radiocarbon reading arrived: 3,700 years old.
Something didn’t add up.
Entry 02 — November 6
We landed at dawn. Five researchers, one armed escort, and three drones. The heat was already climbing past 40°C, the wind whispering like static.
The object lay half-buried in dunes—a medium-sized aircraft, fuselage unmarked by erosion or rust. The wings were smooth as if newly forged.
And yet… the paint. I brushed away the sand and froze.
On the tail, beneath layers of dust, were the faded letters:
U.S. AIR FORCE FLIGHT 9185.
Exactly the aircraft that disappeared in 2025.
Entry 03 — Field Notes (06:42 GMT)
Dr. Jiro analyzed the surface alloy. Composition: titanium-carbon hybrid with isotopic ratios matching modern aerospace materials—except for one impossibility. The atomic decay suggested 3,700 years of exposure.
I remember the silence when he read that number aloud. We all laughed nervously at first, like children spooked by their own imagination.
Then the laughter died.
Because the sand beneath the plane contained no layers of deposition. It had appeared there.
As if it had just landed.
Entry 04 — 10:15 GMT
We entered the cabin through a warped side door. The interior smelled of ozone and dust. Dozens of passengers sat frozen in place, skeletal yet unnaturally preserved. Their clothing—polyester, leather, synthetic fiber—looked new.
One man’s watch still ticked.
03:17 AM.
Jiro whispered, “That’s the moment the plane vanished.”
The air felt dense, charged. Every hair on my arms stood up. I tried the cockpit recorder—it sparked to life, played three seconds of static, and a voice whispering through distortion:
“We’re home.”
Then silence.
Entry 05 — November 7
We’ve begun to experience strange phenomena.
Our digital watches run backward for brief intervals. Drones refuse to maintain GPS lock; they circle endlessly, caught in invisible eddies. The sound recorders pick up background noise—low hums and a pulse at 8Hz, below human hearing but enough to give headaches.
At night, I swear the stars move slower.
Entry 06 — November 8
I’ve started studying the temporal distortion field. It radiates 14 meters around the fuselage, dropping to zero outside. Within it, decay rates fall drastically—measured half-lives extend beyond measurable range. It’s a stasis bubble.
But the strangest part is this: our communication lag with mission control is inconsistent. Sometimes our transmissions return instantly. Other times, delayed by hours.
Temporal phase drift.
NASA believes the aircraft encountered a micro black hole or a tachyon surge. But even Einstein wouldn’t explain a craft jumping 3,700 years into the future.
Unless time isn’t a river. Maybe it’s an ocean—and something stirred beneath it.
Entry 07 — November 10
Jiro disappeared.
He was cataloguing the pilot’s remains when the monitors went white—just static, like an old television losing signal. When the image cleared, he was gone. Only his gloves remained, still warm.
We found a faint scorch mark on the floor. Electromagnetic readings spiked to impossible levels.
No one spoke.
I checked the recorder. It captured a voice—a woman’s voice, whispering in English:
“He went first.”
Entry 08 — November 11
I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about that voice.
Today, we found a photograph inside the cockpit—a crew portrait. The pilot, co-pilot, a few technicians.
One face stopped me cold.
Me.
Same features, same scar on the chin. Different uniform—flight suit, 9185 insignia.
I stared until my eyes blurred. It couldn’t be real. I wasn’t even born when this plane vanished. But my DNA might match.
I took a cheek swab and ran it against the residue on the seat’s headrest. 99.94% match.
I don’t understand.
Unless this isn’t the past coming forward—
but the present folding back.
Entry 09 — November 12
We’ve lost two more researchers.
The electromagnetic surge grows each hour. Instruments now show temporal drift accelerating exponentially. The plane is recharging, as if drawing energy from the Earth’s magnetic field.
I suspect it’s preparing to return.
But to where? Or when?
I’ve been reviewing the black box data again. The last readable line before the static reads:
“Crossing anomaly threshold. Time differential increasing. Cabin temperature—”
Then silence.
A millisecond later, the timestamp jumps from 2025 to -1700 BCE.
The system recorded negative years.
That’s not possible.
Entry 10 — November 13
We’ve been ordered to evacuate, but the helicopters can’t approach. Every compass spins uncontrollably near the site. Even from ten kilometers away, the time lag affects radio waves.
I believe the rift is expanding.
The desert around the plane has grown unnaturally cold. Frost—real frost—on sand under a 40°C sun. A shimmering halo forms above the fuselage, refracting light like water.
I think it’s the event horizon.
I think I know where Jiro went.
And I think I’m next.
Entry 11 — Final Note
If anyone finds this recording, know that what we discovered wasn’t a plane lost in time. It was a time boundary, a membrane between moments. Flight 9185 didn’t travel forward 3,700 years—it was trapped outside time until the world rotated back into alignment.
For the passengers, only seconds passed. For us, millennia.
And for me… I think I’ve been here before.
The photograph proves it. Maybe we’re caught in a loop—an echo. Each time we find the plane, we become it. Each time we study the anomaly, we feed it.
I can hear the hum growing louder. The frost is spreading across the sand. The others are gone.
I see the halo forming again, brighter than the sun.
It’s 03:17 AM.
The same moment on every watch, every clock, every time I close my eyes.
I’m writing this from inside the cockpit. The instruments are active. My reflection stares back at me from the black glass—same scar, same eyes, but younger.
Maybe I was never a scientist who found the plane.
Maybe I was always the pilot who never left.
If that’s true… then this is not a discovery. It’s a return.
The hum peaks. Light consumes everything.
I hear my own voice whisper, distorted through the radio:
“We’re home.”
