Rain always made the Old City Library feel more alive.
The copper roof pinged softly under the steady drizzle, and water whispered along the gargoyle gutters, pouring in narrow silver ribbons onto the courtyard cobblestones. Inside, the building smelled of old paper, wood polish, and something faintly metallic — the scent Elara Quinn had grown to associate with secrets.
She pushed the cart of unsorted donations through the narrow aisles of the basement archives.
A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, bathing the stone-walled room in a pale, stubborn glow. The basement was a place most employees avoided; it was damp, windowless, and prone to sudden, inexplicable cold drafts that rattled the filing cabinets.
Elara didn't mind. In fact, she preferred it down here.
It was easier to think when the world was muffled by layers of stone and silence.
She reached the far wall, where an unmarked cardboard box sat atop a stack of unused display cases. The box looked older than half the books in the library. Its corners were soft and frayed, the packing tape brittle with age.
A faded sticker on the side read:
ESTATE OF ———
The rest of the name had been smudged away, as if someone had tried to erase it.
"Alright," she murmured to herself, dragging the box onto the table. "Let's see what you've been hiding."
Inside, there were the usual things she expected from forgotten donations — yellowed letters, sepia photographs of people long dead, ticket stubs for events no one remembered. But beneath the pile, tucked between two brittle newspapers, was something that didn't belong.
A leather-bound journal.
It was heavy in her hands, the kind of heavy that made her think of locked doors and deep vaults. The cover was cracked with age, the dark brown leather polished smooth in places where it had been touched often. Its clasp was tarnished brass, shaped like a tiny clock face — midnight, just like the one in the prologue.
When she opened it, the first thing she noticed was the handwriting.
It wasn't consistent.
The first page was written in neat, slanted script, the kind she'd seen in 19th-century diaries. The second page was sharper, hurried, almost modern. Then, halfway down the third page, the style shifted again — curling flourishes, ink blots, strange characters she couldn't place in any known alphabet.
She turned more pages.
The ink darkened and lightened unpredictably. In some entries, the dates marched forward neatly… until they didn't. An entry marked November 12, 1742 was followed by one dated April 3, 2091. One page even read:
"This entry has not yet been written."
A shiver moved down her spine.
Then she saw it. Her own name.
"Elara Quinn will find this journal in the basement of the Old City Library. When she does, she will be standing exactly as she is now, with her right hand on the page, and the rain whispering against the copper roof above."
Elara froze. Her right hand was indeed resting on the page.
The rain was indeed whispering above.
The entry continued:
"She will not yet know the weight of what she holds, nor that the next time she looks up from these words, the room will no longer be hers."
She blinked. Looked up.
The basement was gone.
The table, the cardboard box, the flickering light — all gone.
She was standing in the middle of a cobblestone street beneath a pale, overcast sky. The air smelled of coal smoke and horse manure. A tram clattered in the distance, and people in long coats and brimmed hats hurried past, casting her curious glances.
In her hands, the journal was still open.
But the page had changed.
Now it simply said:
"Welcome to 1923."