The apartment felt colder than before. Shadows stretched longer, whispering doubts. She slammed the workbook shut, unable to face more.
Yet the next morning, new words appeared overnight:
Emma, please. I dreamed of you. You were older, your hair different, your smile gone. You looked at me like I was a stranger. It scared me. Don't let me become that man. Don't let me lose you.
Emma's breath hitched. Dreams. Was he seeing glimpses of her time, just as she was being pulled into his?
She scribbled furiously:
Stop this. It's too dangerous. The more we do this, the more the lines blur. You don't belong in my present, and I don't belong in your past.
The reply cut like a blade:
Maybe we belong in both.
Emma shivered. The workbook was no longer a conduit of memory; it had become a crossroads where past and present collided.