The alley stretched out before them like a narrow throat, brick walls rising on either side, damp with years of rain. Puddles mirrored the jagged lines in the sky — only in the water, the cracks didn't stay still. They spread and shifted, spidering outward like something was hunting.
Casimir's steps were fast but deliberate. "Keep your eyes forward. Don't look into them."
"Into what?"
"The cracks."
Naturally, she looked.
At first, it was like staring at a reflection in warped glass — a shimmer, a sense of depth where there should have been none. Then, deep within, she thought she saw… movement. Shadows? Figures? Her stomach lurched and she tore her gaze away.
"What happens if I—"
"You don't want to know," he cut in.
They rounded a corner, emerging onto a wider street lined with tall, soot-stained buildings. Gaslamps burned with a faint hiss, their halos struggling against the gray afternoon. A tram rattled past, its wheels sparking, and Elara noticed with a jolt that the conductor had no face — just a pale blankness where features should be.
The hum rose again.
The cobblestones directly ahead unwove — not crumbling, but vanishing in small squares, revealing a flat nothingness beneath. The emptiness spread like ink in water, moving to cut them off.
Casimir grabbed her hand. "This way!"
They darted down a side street, their footsteps loud in the deserted space. She caught glimpses of life through windows — a woman pouring tea, a man reading a paper — but none of them moved. They were frozen mid-gesture, their eyes fixed forward.
Her breath came ragged. "They're… stuck?"
"Erased in progress," Casimir said grimly. "If we move fast, they won't notice."
The journal in her hand grew hotter. She flipped it open as they ran. Fresh words sprawled across the page:
"Turn left at the clocktower. Trust no doors."
"Left at the clocktower!" she called.
Casimir didn't question her. They reached the end of the street, and there it was — a looming stone tower, its clock face stopped at midnight, the same as the clasp on her journal.
They turned, plunging into a street that seemed even older, the cobbles uneven and slick. The hum was now a constant undercurrent, rattling windows, making her teeth ache.
And then — ahead — a figure.
Tall. Overcoat. Standing perfectly still in the middle of the street.
Elara's chest tightened. "It's him."
Casimir slowed, his hand tightening on her arm. "Whatever happens, don't speak to him."
But the man in the overcoat smiled faintly, as if he'd heard.
"Running from me again, Elara?" His voice was smooth, threaded with something like amusement. "You can't outrun yourself."
Her feet faltered. "What?"
Casimir yanked her forward, breaking into a sprint. Behind them, the cracks in the sky flared gold, spilling light that chased them like a rising tide.
They didn't stop until they reached a low iron door set into the wall of a narrow courtyard. Casimir produced the needle-sized key again, jammed it into the lock, and shoved her inside.
The door slammed shut — and the hum stopped.
---
They were standing in a room lined with maps.
Every wall was covered in parchment, cloth, or strange glass panels etched with constellations and grids. But instead of countries and oceans, these maps were marked with years, decades, centuries. Thin red threads connected certain points, crossing and tangling until the whole thing looked like a spider's web spun through time.
Casimir locked the door behind them. "We'll be safe here. For now."
Elara turned, still clutching the journal. "That man—what did he mean, I can't outrun myself?"
Casimir's gaze lingered on the web of threads. "Because, Elara…"
He met her eyes, his shifting irises catching the lamplight.
"…he wasn't lying."