The sound hit her first — sharper, louder than the city she'd just left behind.
Instead of the muted hum of traffic, there was the clop of horse hooves, the hiss of steam, and the metallic clank of trolley wheels. People's footsteps echoed differently here, bouncing off narrow stone streets flanked by tall brick buildings with soot-streaked facades.
Elara's heart pounded in her ears.
She spun slowly, her sneakers slipping slightly on wet cobblestones. The rain here wasn't the fine, cold drizzle of her own time — it was heavier, oily with smoke from the chimneys that lined the skyline.
She clutched the journal tighter, her fingers tingling.
It was still warm, as though the leather had been sitting in sunlight, though there was no sun to be seen. The words Welcome to 1923 stared up at her in ink so fresh it almost glistened.
A man in a bowler hat and wool coat brushed past her, muttering something she couldn't catch.
Two women in long skirts passed on the opposite side of the street, glancing at her clothes — jeans, a navy hoodie, and bright white trainers — as though she were some exotic bird that had wandered into their flock.
Her mind stumbled for explanations.
She'd read enough about time slips — sudden, unexplained displacements — to know the stories were usually dismissed as hallucinations, tricks of memory, or elaborate hoaxes.
But she could smell the coal smoke. She could feel the rough texture of the cobbles under her shoes. She could hear the uneven rattle of the tramcar before she even saw it turn the corner.
Her breath quickened.
Okay. This is a dream. Or… heatstroke? No, it's raining. Maybe I've fainted in the basement and I'm hallucinating. Yes, that's it. Any second now I'll wake up in the library.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Counted to three. Opened them.
Still here.
The tram clattered closer, its front painted in deep green enamel with gold lettering:
CITÉ LINE.
Passengers clung to its handrails as it slowed to a stop, their voices a strange mix of clipped English and lilting accents she couldn't quite place. The air was full of the hiss of steam brakes, the warm scent of oil and iron.
A movement caught her eye — a man standing at the far corner, half-shrouded in the mist rising from the street.
He was tall, wearing a long charcoal overcoat, and unlike the others, he wasn't moving with the crowd. His gaze was fixed on her.
Elara's stomach tightened.
He didn't look confused by her clothes. He didn't look startled by her sudden appearance. He looked… expectant. Like he had been waiting.
The journal shifted in her hands.
Her eyes dropped to the page. The ink had rearranged itself again. New words had appeared beneath Welcome to 1923:
"Do not speak to the man in the overcoat. He will try to help you. He must not."
Her pulse hammered.
She looked back toward the street corner — and the man was gone.
A cold wind coiled around her ankles, though the rest of the street seemed unchanged.
The journal grew heavier, as if it knew something she didn't, as if it were urging her forward.
Somewhere, a church bell tolled the hour. Midnight.
Which made no sense — the sky was still gray with afternoon.
Then she heard it: a low hum, deep in her bones. Faint but growing, like the world itself was inhaling.
The words on the journal shifted again.
"Run."