That night, after taking a shower, Claire Whitmore flopped onto the bed like a corpse.
The meeting with Thomas Hale still lingered vividly in her mind. His words echoed in her ears — "The woman in the photo… is you."
How could that possibly be true?
But everything that happened that morning strongly hinted that… maybe it was.
Claire turned her head toward the nightstand — the old photo album sat right there.
Thomas Hale had insisted she take it, saying it might help her uncover the truth about why his cousin disappeared all those years ago. Was he murdered?
Being suddenly handed such a burden gave Claire a headache.
She had just wanted to get to the bottom of a case. How did things escalate into something this bizarre and inexplicable?
"Alexander Hale… who exactly are you?"
Hugging her pillow, Claire rolled around on the bed. If she really could travel through time — how was she supposed to do it?
She had already taken the photo out and tried countless ways to trigger a time jump — none had worked.
She had even considered setting it on fire, but then thought, What if that's not the way it's supposed to turn to ash? So she gave up on that idea too.
Raising her hand, Claire looked at the watch on her wrist. It was very real — Alexander Hale had personally put it on her. That alone was undeniable proof they had met.
And from the way he spoke that morning… it was like it wasn't even their first time meeting.
The more Claire thought about it, the more uneasy she felt. This kind of foggy, uncertain feeling was the worst. She couldn't sleep. Eventually, she got up, slid on her slippers, and headed downstairs.
Before leaving the Hale estate, she had asked Thomas for all of Alexander's old films. Thomas had generously packed them all into a box for her.
Sitting in front of the TV, Claire began watching from the very first film he ever made.
He had started acting at the age of fifteen, playing a mute and deaf teenager in a minor role. He wasn't even a proper supporting character.
But his breathtaking looks and natural acting talent instantly drew attention. The moment the film was released, it created a stir and launched his acting career.
Though he began in American films, most of his later works were shot back in his home country.
Seeing that he had worked with so many legendary directors, Claire couldn't help but be shocked.
It was hard to imagine that someone who had once been so globally renowned could completely vanish from history — with not even a trace left behind.
Even after more than thirty years, there should've been something. The only explanation? Someone had deliberately erased him from existence.
If it hadn't been for these DVDs, Claire would never have realized that Alexander Hale had actually acted in some of the very films she'd seen before. But his scenes had either been cut — or his face had been replaced entirely.
So, she ended up watching his films all night.
The next day, when she showed up to the station looking completely drained, both Ava Monroe and Ethan Blake were concerned.
"Are you okay? Did something happen?" they asked.
Claire waved her hand tiredly. She didn't want to talk about it. Instead, she asked Ava, "Did you manage to track down the car owner from the plate I gave you yesterday?"
Ava looked regretful and shook her head. "I did check. The car was a rental. The renter used a fake ID. The car's been returned now. I'm working with the sketch you gave me to try to ID the two Black men."
Claire nodded. She really wanted to know who had tried to attack her — but she knew rushing it wouldn't help.
Besides, something told her that the two men might be connected to the thirty-year-old disappearance she was investigating. But why they'd target her specifically — she couldn't figure out.
In the past few nights, Claire hadn't been sleeping well. She kept dreaming of a warm hand gently caressing her face, a soft voice calling her name in the dark.
"Clai…"
"Clai…"
"I'm waiting for you…"
And every time she groggily opened her eyes, she would see Alexander Hale sitting at her bedside, gazing at her with that gentle look in his eyes.
Every time, she would jolt awake.
Only to realize… it had just been another dream.
Unable to sleep, she would go downstairs to watch more of his films. But she barely watched the movies — she just paused them whenever his face appeared on screen.
After a few days of this, Claire realized: If she didn't find a way to see him again soon… she might go insane.
That man had haunted her every waking thought. She needed to ask him what the hell was going on.
But the more she wanted to see him… the more impossible it seemed.
That evening, after work, Claire bought a cup of oden from a street vendor. She sat down on a small plastic stool by the roadside to eat.
Next to her, a little girl was crouching and happily licking an ice pop — she looked adorable.
Claire couldn't resist gently patting the girl's head. The child grinned at her, and Claire's eyes softened.
Bored, Claire took out the old photograph — the one she always kept with her.
Every time she looked at the woman in the photo — herself — she felt a strange sense of detachment, like the woman wasn't her at all. Maybe it was the strong feeling of age and distance in the image. After all, it was taken decades ago.
Propping her chin on one hand, Claire murmured, "Come to think of it… I wonder who the me in the photo was so worried about? Why do I look so distressed?"
Creak!
Just then, a strange creaking sound came from above.
Claire looked up — the neon light on the billboard above her flickered twice, then with a deafening crash, the entire billboard collapsed!
"Watch out!"
Realizing there was no time to dodge, Claire's instinct was to hurl herself over the little girl, shielding her tightly with both arms.
In the instant before the sign landed on her, she saw the photo clutched in her hand suddenly turn to ash — and disappear.
The last things Claire heard were a loud bang — and the soft, distant sound of a piano. The notes were slow, ethereal, like a spring trickle flowing gently into her ears.
It was a familiar tune.
Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
---
Claire's eyes flew open from the darkness.
But the scene in front of her was still dark.
Realizing she was in a closed space, she instinctively pressed against the wall, feeling around for a way out.
Her fingers brushed over what felt like a door — she shoved it hard.
To her surprise, the door wasn't locked. It swung open easily — and she tumbled right out.
"Ah!"
She let out a startled cry — and the piano music stopped abruptly.
Holding her sore knee, Claire sat up, grimacing in pain. Looking behind her, she realized…
She had just fallen out of a wardrobe.
A large, ornately carved European-style armoire — filled with vintage clothes.
Before she could get a good look around, a clear, young voice called from behind her.
"Who are you?"
Claire turned around — and saw a young boy sitting at the piano across the room.
His hands rested gently on the keys. His bright, clear eyes stared straight at her — calm and composed. Not the reaction one would expect from a child who had just seen a stranger tumble out of a closet.
He was dressed in a little suit with suspenders, polished shoes, like a proper young gentleman. The outfit was refined, old-fashioned — a far cry from what trendy modern kids wore.
Claire stared at his face — delicate features, pale as porcelain. He looked like he'd been carved from jade.
But the more she looked, the more familiar he seemed.
Where had she seen this face before?
Those refined, serene eyes… They looked exactly like the man who had occupied her thoughts for days — Alexander Hale.
And then it hit her.
Wait — could this boy actually be Alexander Hale as a child?