Patterns.
You think you see them only in hindsight.
But the Whitmans have always felt them first—as breath, rhythm, ache.

In Echoes of the Turning Wheel, the family confronts time not as sequence but as recurrence. Dreams repeat. Wounds reopen across generations. A young archivist named Mara uncovers a sealed Whitman testimony from eighty years prior—one that appears to predict her every move.

Meanwhile, a cult-like civic faction uses these patterns to justify a new regime: "If this has all happened before," they argue, "perhaps we were always meant to rule."

What unfolds is not prophecy.
It is resistance to recursion—story as sabotage.
Because if history is a wheel, then naming the spokes may be the only way to shatter it.