Andro Philipos had always been one of the soft ones. Not soft in strength—but soft in spirit. The kind of softness that wasn’t about fragility, but about depth. He was the kind of man whose smile could quiet a storm in another soul, whose presence was like a warm afternoon breeze that reminded you of home.

  Born in 1983, Andro was raised in a narrow street nestled in the heart of Old Cairo, back when walls had voices and every crack in the pavement told a story. His neighborhood wasn’t fancy, but it was honest. Laundry lines danced in the wind between balconies, the scent of jasmine crept through open windows, and the street cats had names. People didn’t just live next to each other—they belonged to each other.

  He grew up in a world where phones had cords, and love letters were hidden in book covers. Where children respected silence and listened when elders spoke. In that world, kindness wasn’t an anomaly—it was expected. But even among such a world, Andro stood out.

  He walked slower than most people. He noticed things others didn’t—like the old man who fed birds at 6 a.m. every Friday, or the woman who cried quietly at her window every night after the call to prayer. He always offered his help before anyone asked, and he meant it. If he saw someone struggling, he didn’t hesitate—he simply acted.

  People would sometimes pat him on the shoulder and say things like, “Don’t ever change, Andro.” But there was always something in their eyes—half admiration, half worry—as if they knew the world wasn’t built to protect boys like him.

  His father was a literature teacher, wise and humble. He raised Andro with books, God, and music. On weekends, they’d sit by the radio together, sipping sweet tea and listening to old Arabic love songs from the greats—Abdel Halim, Fairuz, Umm Kulthum. Each song was a lesson. Each lyric a doorway to emotion. Andro didn’t just hear music—he felt it. It was the only language that matched the weight of his silence.

  His favorite song was “El Hob Kolloh.” There was something timeless about it. The longing. The heartbreak. The kind of love that didn’t need to be loud to be true. That song stayed with him like a prayer he never spoke aloud.

  He carried a small cassette player everywhere. It was old, even by 1999’s standards, but it was a part of him. He liked the scratch of the tape, the way the buttons clicked, the way it forced him to slow down. In a world that was starting to rush forward, Andro was walking backward—gently, purposefully.

  He wasn’t popular. He wasn’t modern. He was... still. Quiet. Kind. Unshakeably good.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  And then, something happened.

  It was a cold, rainy night in December 1999. The air was thick with electricity and nostalgia. Andro had just left church after evening service. He was walking home alone, the streets glistening under streetlights, his shoes splashing through puddles as his cassette played quietly in his coat pocket.

  Then came the thunder.

  A crack of light tore through the sky. Rain poured harder. Andro looked around and saw the streets emptying fast. He needed shelter. He ducked into an old, mostly-forgotten metro station just behind Ramses—one he’d passed by hundreds of times but never entered.

  It was eerily silent inside. The tiles were cracked, the air stale, and the lights dim. He found a bench and sat down, wiping water from his face. The cassette was still playing softly. The song: “El Hob Kolloh.”

  That’s when it happened.

  The station trembled—not like an earthquake, but like something was shifting beneath him. A strange hum filled the air, like a melody only the universe could hear. The lights flickered blue for a moment, and then the platform around him blurred—like water being stirred.

  And then—nothing.

  No sound. No thunder. No song. Just silence.

  When Andro opened his eyes, the world was... different.

  He stood up, heart pounding. Everything looked sharper, louder, faster. The station, now lit with newer lights, had a giant touchscreen kiosk where the old ticket booth had been. A digital board blinked overhead: “Welcome to Cairo Metro – December 22nd, 2017.”

  Andro stared. Blinking. Trembling.

  2017?

  He ran outside.

  The streets were alive with unfamiliar sounds. The cars looked different. People walked past him with glowing rectangles in their hands, eyes locked onto them like they were portals to another universe. He stopped a young man passing by and asked, “Excuse me… What day is it?”

  The man looked him up and down, puzzled. “You okay, bro? What are you, filming a YouTube prank?”

  Andro didn’t know the words. Didn’t understand the tone.

  He wandered the streets in a daze. His old neighborhood looked the same—but not. The bookstore where he bought his first novel was now a vape shop. The tailor’s window displayed t-shirts with slogans like “Emotionally Unavailable” and “Kindness is a Trap.”

  He entered a small café, dizzy with confusion, and asked to use a phone. He gave his home number. The waiter raised an eyebrow. “No landlines anymore, man. You living under a rock?”

  Andro stepped outside, walked a few more blocks, and collapsed onto a quiet bench. He took out his cassette player. Miraculously, it still worked. He pressed play. The tape crackled. The same old song, now haunting.

  He whispered aloud: “God… what’s happening? Why am I here? Why this year? What am I supposed to do?”

  For the first time in his life, Andro Philipos felt completely… lost.

  He didn’t know that the kindness he carried like a flame would soon be tested. That the world around him would try to extinguish it. That people would look at his gentleness not as strength—but as something broken that needed fixing.

  But for now, all he had was the night. The song. And the feeling that something far greater than time had just shifted in his soul.