Emma didn't sleep that night.
The workbook lay on the nightstand, faintly illuminated by the pale glow of the streetlamp outside her window. She had pulled the curtains shut, then opened them again, pacing the room like a woman possessed.
She told herself she had imagined it. Stress and exhaustion could do strange things to the mind. But every time she cracked the book open, the words were still there:
I'm Ethan Blake. I'm eighteen. Who are you?
The handwriting was identical to the one she remembered from a lifetime ago—slanted to the right, impatient but neat. She could still picture the way his hand had moved when he wrote, the furrow of concentration between his brows.
Her chest tightened. How could this be?
At dawn, with trembling fingers, she reached for her pen again.
If you're Ethan, then tell me something only he would know.
She pressed the nib hard into the page, nearly tearing it. She slammed the book shut and paced, biting her nails, waiting. Minutes passed. Nothing.
Then, she reopened it. New words unfurled beneath hers, as though written by an invisible hand:
You used to draw lilacs in the margins of your notes. You hated chemistry but loved literature. You once told me you wanted to live in a villa by the sea, with windows so big you could hear the waves at night. I swore I'd build it for you.
Emma's knees buckled, and she sank onto the edge of her bed. A sob tore from her throat, unbidden and raw.
How could he remember that? She hadn't spoken of the villa in years, not since they were teenagers lying on the grass under summer skies, whispering dreams they were too young to know wouldn't last.
And yet, as the pale morning light crept across her bedroom floor, Emma knew the workbook was no trick of the night. Something impossible had begun—and she could no longer turn away.