The book appeared on Elara's counter one dawn. Its spine was cracked, its title faded: The Atlas of Lost Rivers. She knew it instantly—it had been sold last year to a collector who prized its rarity. She had never seen another copy.
On the inside cover, a handwritten dedication curled across the page:
"To Kieran. For the journeys we have yet to take. – Elara."
Her own name, her own hand—but she had never written it.
The weight of it chilled her. This was not just an object crossing. This was something stranger, more dangerous: a piece of a world that should not exist.
When she slipped a note into the pages that night—"I didn't write this. Did you?"—the reply came back quickly, the handwriting jagged with urgency:
"No. But maybe we're not the only ones sending things."