Drip. Drip. Drip.
Adrian woke to light that moved. It crawled up his arms in thin pulses, rising and falling with his heartbeat. The air hummed faintly—low, vibrating through bone and breath. Warmth and cold twisted inside him like two currents wrestling beneath the skin.
He inhaled sharply, choking on dust. The sound that tore out of his throat was too rough, too young, too strained to be his.
'That's not my voice.'.
His hands came into focus—scarred knuckles, dirt ground into the creases, callouses built over years of labor. He flexed them, watching the tendons shift beneath unfamiliar skin.
'These aren't my hands.'
The room around him was small and damp, walls sagging under their own mildew. A single chair slumped near the corner, half-swallowed by shadow. A warped table leaned toward a bed draped in a wet, heavy blanket. Rain whispered against the thin wooden boards, close enough to feel in the bones.
He rose on legs that obeyed before he consciously moved them—stronger, lighter, wrong.
You're not home. You're nowhere you know.
A notebook lay open on the bed. Ink bled into the paper like veins:
February 1790.
May 1794.
June 1811.
April 1814.
October 1824.
Different handwriting for each decade—neat, slanted, shaking. Rent due. Illness. Empty winters. Lives finished long before he existed.
That's impossible'.
He turned toward the window. Gaslamps glowed in the rain outside, haloed gold and unsteady. No electricity. No engines. No city hum. Just the slow exhale of a world older than any he knew.
His breath hitched. "Where the hell am I?"
The sound startled him again—this stranger's voice hitting the cold air like a mistake.
He moved to the cracked mirror above a basin. The face staring back wasn't his. Brown hair. Grey eyes. Lean cheeks. A man both frail and stubbornly alive.
"Who are you," he whispered.
The mirror stayed silent. The light behind him flickered once—too sharply, almost like it was reacting.
He braced both palms on the sink.
*Think. You're conscious. You're breathing. Start there.*
The coat hanging by the door smelled like smoke and damp wool. He pulled it on and stepped outside.
Cold night air cut across his skin. The street stretched long and slick, brick buildings crouched close on either side. Oil lamps flickered. Coal smoke clung to everything. There were no cars. No wires. No signs of anything that belonged to him.
Old England. Or something pretending to be.
He walked through the mist. People in heavy coats and caps glanced once at him before quickly looking away—furtive, sharp, almost offended by his presence.
He stopped a man. "Excuse me—what year is it?"
The man recoiled like struck, muttered something, and crossed the street fast. Others avoided him the same way, giving him wide berths as if something about him scratched at their instincts.
Alright. Talking doesn't help.
He turned back toward the crooked little house. Its window flickered dimly through the rain—one familiar point in all this strangeness.
Then he froze.
Three figures stood in front of the door. Unmoving. Watching him.
He pressed against the nearest wall, heart kicking into his ribs. The shortest figure turned its head. Their eyes met.
The figure smiled.
Then began walking toward him—slow, deliberate, like they already knew where he'd run.
Run!
His body moved before thought. Boots splashed through puddles. The footsteps behind him began soft, measured… then stopped entirely.
He glanced back.
Empty street. No one there.
He returned only when the knot in his throat loosened enough to breathe. The figures were gone.
He pushed the door open quietly.
The air inside was warm. Still. Too still.
A woman sat in the chair by the hearth as though she'd always been there, posture straight, one gloved hand balanced around a teacup. Her coat—deep brown, sharp at the seams—was dry despite the downpour outside. Auburn hair framed a composed, intelligent face.
She lifted her gaze the moment he entered.
"Good evening," she said.
He stopped in the doorway. How did she get in?
Two more figures stood behind him—one tall and broad-shouldered with white hair and pale blue eyes; the other smaller, silent, dark-haired, watching with a faint red glow swelling in the irises.
"You'll forgive our intrusion," the woman continued. "We let ourselves in. You were out."
His hand drifted toward the table—an instinct. If they move, grab something and run.
She noticed. "No need for that, Mr. Whitlock."
Whitlock?
The name hit him like cold water.
She watched confusion ripple across his face. "That is your name," she said gently. "Is it not?"
Not mine.
He swallowed. "Who are you?"
She set her teacup aside. "Madam Saelen," she said. "I oversee retrieval and stabilization of new awakenings." She gestured to the white-haired man. "Officer Benson." Then to the quiet one: "And Godfrey."
Both inclined their heads.
"Awakening?" Adrian echoed. The word meant nothing and everything.
Saelen leaned forward, voice lowering into something certain. "You've felt it, haven't you? The pull under your skin. The colors behind your eyes. The whispers."
His pulse kicked. *How does she—*
She nodded, as if confirming a diagnosis. "Then it's begun."
He forced out, "Awakening to what?"
She lifted her hand. Silver light unfurled from her palm—fluid, alive, gathering into a shape like a flower made of dusk. It dissolved into air with a soft hiss.
"This," she said. "Ether. The current beneath all living things."
He stared. *That.. can't be real.* But he had watched it happen.
"You've been exposed to it," she continued softly. "It's pulling at you now."
A sharp pulse detonated behind his eyes. Pain spread through his skull—cold, electric, whispering. He dropped to one knee as voices he didn't recognize hissed through his mind.
Saelen was by his side instantly. Her palm pressed to his temple. Light spread through his skin—cool, steadying, silencing.
The pain ebbed. His breath returned.
"You feel it," she murmured. "Still there. But it's quiet now. Left alone, it would have shattered you."
He met her eyes. She wasn't lying. She believed every word.
"Benson," she said, rising, "fetch the carriage. Godfrey—help him gather anything of importance."
The men moved without question.
Saelen paused at the doorway, her gaze settling on him with a faint softness. "You'll come with us, Mr. Whitlock."
He didn't argue. Three of them. One of him. Cooperation was survival.
"You've endured more than most do before we reach them," she added. "That's… unusual."
Then she stepped into the rain.
Only Godfrey remained.
The pale young man stood still as a pinned shadow, his red-tinged eyes fixed on Adrian with something between curiosity and caution.
"You're new?" Adrian said.
Godfrey blinked, surprised. "I… am. How did you know?"
"The look," Adrian said. "People figuring out their place always have it."
His gaze flicked to Godfrey's eyes. "Those… contacts? Or real?"
A beat of confusion. "What…are…contacts?"
Adrian almost laughed. "Never mind."
He crossed to the chest by the bed. Rough shirts. Patched trousers. Boots that had walked through too many winters. Whoever lived here—Whitlock—owned little more than necessity.
He folded what he could. The leather notebook caught his eye. He slid it into his satchel without hesitation.
That stays with me.
They stepped into the street together.
The rain had faded into a cold mist. Lamps flickered weakly. The air shimmered with faint colors that seemed to move when he wasn't looking directly at them.
A carriage waited at the corner—black, polished, and hovering inches above the ground. Light pooled around its wheels like a silent halo.
Adrian stopped. "It's… floating."
Saelen, standing beside it, gave a small nod. "It is."
"Carriages don't float."
"They do here."
He hesitated. *This can't be real.* But she already opened the door.
"Come along, Mr. Whitlock," she said. "And brace yourself. The Channel is never gentle on the newly awakened."
"The Channel?" he asked. "Why would it need—"
"You'll see."
He climbed inside.
The door shut. *Whump.*
The air thickened instantly—heavy, pressurized. His breath lodged in his throat. He slammed back into the seat as something invisible crushed the air from his lungs.
Across from him, Saelen didn't flinch. Benson's outline wavered like heat over stone. Godfrey's jaw clenched, faint silver light pulsing under his skin.
"I did warn you," Saelen said softly.
She lifted her hand. Silver light wrapped him. The pressure evaporated. He gasped, dragging breath back into his chest.
A whisper brushed his mind.
Look outside.
His hand moved without permission. Shff. The curtain slid open.
The world outside wasn't a street.
It was color and void—rivers of light threading through darkness, bending, folding, singing in tones he wasn't made to hear. Stars spun like embers caught in currents. Shapes rose and dissolved in seconds. Time stretched thin, warped, rearranged. Eyes formed from all angles, baring their sights upon him.
He couldn't look away.
That voice wasn't his.
It wasn't human.
Light surged toward the carriage—aware. Curious. Reaching—
"Enough," Saelen snapped.
Silver flared. *Snap.* The curtain shut.
He collapsed forward, hands trembling. "What… was that?"
"The Channel of Echoes," she answered."
"How long did I -."
"You looked for two seconds." Benson chimed.
Godfrey murmured, "Lookin longer…kills most."
Adrian swallowed hard. "Then why did you tell me to look?"
Silence.
None of them answered.
"Close your eyes."
Saelen's voice softened. "Rest for now, Mr. Whitlock." She waved her hand before his face in a gentle swaying motion.
His eyes closed despite himself. Exhaustion dragged him under.
Outside, unseen, the Channel rippled in colors that did not belong to mortal sight.
And for the first time since dying, Adrian slept.