(OPENING)
Cold.
Not the chill of rain, but the deep, marrow-numbing cold of stone.
Elias gasped, lungs burning as if he'd been drowning. He was on his knees, palms pressed against rough cobblestones slick with something that wasn't rain. *Mud. And… manure?*
The stench hit him first—coal smoke, rotting vegetables, and the thick, animal tang of horses. Then came the noise: the clatter of hooves, the creak of wooden wheels, high-pitched shouts in an accent that curled strangely around the edges.
*Where—?*
He blinked, vision swimming. Gone was the screech of brakes, the smell of blood and peaches. Gone was Aria's weight in his arms.
Instead:
**Fog.** Thick, yellow-grey, swallowing the tops of buildings.
**Gaslight.** Flickering orbs casting weak haloes in the gloom.
**Carriages.** Black, horse-drawn, rattling past men in tall hats and women swathed in dark wool, their faces pale smudges.
*Victorian London.*
The knowledge slammed into him, disconnected and impossible. He'd seen pictures. History books. This wasn't right. *He* wasn't right.
**(DISORIENTATION & PANIC)**
He looked down at his hands.
Still his hands. Scarred knuckles, the faint white line from a knife fight near Basra. But his clothes… his modern jeans, damp jacket, and t-shirt were gone. Replaced by rough, scratchy wool trousers, a collarless shirt, and a coarse sackcloth jacket that reeked of lye soap and sweat.
*The watch.*
He scrabbled frantically at his chest, his hip, his pockets—finding only coarse fabric and a single copper coin. Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the fog in his mind. *Had he lost it? Lost the only thing left of—*
His fingers closed around cold, familiar metal.
It was tucked deep inside the waistband of the unfamiliar trousers. He pulled it out, trembling.
The brass casing was warmer than the air. The crack across the glass seemed darker, deeper. As he stared, the watch gave a single, heavy *THUD* against his palm—not a tick, but a heartbeat. A pulse of **dull gold light** flickered within the crack, then vanished.
*Wind it only when your tears fall.*
The Shopkeeper's words echoed, taunting him. His tears *had* fallen. On Aria's still face. On the watch. And it had shattered… *this*.
A shrill whistle cut the air.
"Oy! You! Loafer!" A burly man in a constable's uniform strode towards him, truncheon tapping against his leg. "On yer feet! Blockin' the thoroughfare!"
Elias staggered up, muscles screaming with phantom aches from the war, from… *holding her*. Soldier's instincts kicked in—*assess, orient, survive.* He tucked the watch back, hiding it.
"Lost, mate?" the constable sneered, peering at Elias's dazed face and strange clothes. "Or just foxed before noon?"
Elias forced his voice past the desert in his throat. "Just… resting." The accent felt alien on his tongue.
"Rest elsewhere," the constable grunted, shoving him towards the grimy sidewalk. "Or it's the clink for you. Move!"
**(THE GLIMMER)**
Elias stumbled into the flow of pedestrians, buffeted by shoulders and elbows. The sheer *wrongness* of it threatened to drown him. The weight of grief was a physical thing, a stone tied to his heart, dragging him towards the filthy cobbles. *Aria. Gone. Because he couldn't save her. Because he was always too slow, too late—*
He stopped dead.
Across the crowded street, partially obscured by a hansom cab pulling away, was a small art supply shop. Its window displayed brushes, stretched canvases, and jars of powdered pigment.
And standing before it, examining a small tin of crimson paint, was…
*Aria.*
His heart stopped. Then slammed against his ribs like a fist.
She wore a high-necked dress of deep moss green, her brown hair pinned up beneath a simple straw hat adorned with a silk sparrow. A smudge of ochre colored her cheekbone. She frowned slightly at the paint tin, tapping it with one finger.
*Alive.*
*Breathing.*
*Real.*
Elias didn't think. He lunged forward, weaving desperately through carts and horses, ignoring shouts and curses. He had to reach her. Had to *touch* her. To know this wasn't another cruel dream born of grief and shock.
**(THE SHATTERED RECOGNITION)**
He burst onto the sidewalk in front of the shop, breathless. She looked up, startled by his sudden, frantic appearance.
Their eyes met.
*Brown. Warm.* Just like her. The shape of her face, the curve of her lips, the slight furrow between her brows when surprised… it was *her*.
"Aria!" The name tore from him, raw and desperate. He reached for her hand.
She flinched back, eyes widening—not with recognition, but with alarm. A stranger's fear. She clutched the paint tin like a shield.
"Sir! Please!" Her voice was higher, softer than *his* Aria's, laced with a refined London accent. Polite. Distant. Utterly confused. "Do I… know you?"
The world tilted. Elias swayed. The stone of grief cracked, replaced by a howling void of disbelief. *She didn't know him.* The warmth in her eyes was gone, replaced by wary caution.
He fumbled, desperate. "Aria, it's me! Elias! You… you handed me my watch. In the rain. Don't you remember?" He pulled the pocket watch from his waistband, holding it out like proof, the cracked glass catching the weak gaslight. "You said it was precious!"
Her gaze flickered to the watch. For a split second, something flickered in her eyes—a spark of curiosity, maybe? Recognition of the object itself? She leaned slightly closer, peering at the crack.
"It *is* rather fine," she murmured, her voice still cautious, "despite the damage. An unusual piece. But sir…" She met his eyes again, her expression softening slightly with bewildered pity. "…I fear you are mistaken. My name is *Lily Thorne*. I have never seen you, nor that watch, before in my life."
She took another small step back, adjusting her hat. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" She turned towards the shop door.
The void inside Elias screamed. *Lily Thorne?* It wasn't her name. It wasn't *her*. But it *was* her face, her voice, her soul looking out from behind unfamiliar eyes.
He grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly. Wait Please
She froze, her body tensing. Fear flashed across her face again. "Unhand me, sir! Immediately, or I shall call for the constable!"
Elias released her as if burned. He saw the genuine terror in her eyes—terror of *him*. The soldier who couldn't save his wife. The man who shattered time. The stranger accosting her on a foggy London street.
He stood there, hollowed out, watching as "Lily Thorne" hurried into the art shop, the bell jingling sharply behind her. Through the window, he saw her speak quickly to the shopkeeper, casting a frightened glance back towards him.
The pocket watch in his hand pulsed again. *Thud.*
A wave of dizziness washed over him. The gaslights blurred. The fog thickened, swallowing the edges of the street.
And there, down the lane, half-lost in the swirling grey, a familiar shape materialized:
A narrow storefront. A sign shaped like an hourglass.
The shop.
Always waiting.
Always watching.
Elias Kane closed his fist around the cracked watch, the metal biting into his palm. The cold dread in his gut warred with a terrifying, desperate spark.
She was alive.
She didn't know him.
She would die again.
The chase had begun.
(END CHAPTER)