Time Lord — ((link))

Her name was Elara Venn.

That is Elara Venn, walking the tapestry. Keeping the clock from breaking again. time lord

Batzorig—or what remained of him—explained the truth. Time was not a river, as poets liked to say. It was a tapestry, woven by conscious observation. Every living mind was a thread, pulling the fabric into shape. But humanity had grown too numerous, too aware. The collective weight of seven billion minds observing seven billion different presents had torn a hole in the weave. The fracture was not an accident. It was an inevitability. Her name was Elara Venn

“Who are you?” Elara asked.

The only candidate was Elara.

The fracture grew wider. By Elara's tenth birthday, whole decades were bleeding into one another. Viking longships sailed the Thames alongside autonomous drones. The Library of Alexandria, burning and unburning in a loop, manifested over the ruins of Chicago. Humanity was learning to live in a broken chronology, but no one was thriving. Suicide rates soared. The concept of memory became unreliable—people would wake up with their parents' childhoods lodged in their own minds, or with the grief of wars not yet fought. Batzorig—or what remained of him—explained the truth

At least, that's what they told her.