The diner's bathroom smelled of soap and lemon cleanser, not bleach. That was the first thing Luxe noticed when she shut the door behind them.
The light above the mirror buzzed faintly, glowing soft yellow instead of the sterile white she was used to. Aurora stood beside her, staring at their reflections as if they belonged to strangers.
Her sister's hair clung to her cheeks in damp strands, river mud smudged into her jawline. Luxe hardly looked better: clothes plastered to her frame, dark half-moons beneath her eyes, scratches laddering her arms.
They both looked like runaways, which—technically—they were.
But the date on the newspaper burned in Luxe's memory like a brand. 1952. No Bluetooth speakers. No cell phones. No modern bills. No neon buzz. Only jukeboxes, coins, and chrome.
Aurora whispered it like a curse. "Luce. Did you see it?"
"Yes." Luxe turned the faucet on, letting cold water fill the porcelain basin. "Don't say it out loud again."
Aurora obeyed, but her reflection's eyes widened like a child pressing against glass. She pressed her fingertips to her lips as though she could keep the words caged inside.
They washed quickly, passing the rough towel between them, scrubbing until the river faded from their hair and faces. The water ran brown at first, then clear. Aurora giggled once, a nervous bubble, when Luxe used a bar of pink soap that left her skin smelling faintly of roses.
"Roses," Aurora whispered, inhaling her own wrist. "When was the last time we smelled like anything except dirt and bleach?"
"Don't think about the last time," Luxe said. "Think about now."
But even as she said it, she caught her reflection again and felt a shiver run the length of her spine. The mirror showed them as they had always been, but the world outside that door no longer matched.
Back at the booth, Eileen had left two paper-wrapped sandwiches and a thermos on the table. A folded note sat beside them, the handwriting looping neat and tidy: On the house. You girls stay safe.
Aurora's throat bobbed as she read it. "Why would she—"
"Because she's kind," Luxe said, slipping the note into her pocket. "Not everyone wants to own us."
The thought seemed to stun Aurora into silence.
They finished breakfast, thanked Eileen with voices steadier than they felt, and stepped outside. The bell chimed again, the air biting cool on their damp skin.
The road stretched in both directions, curving along the river before it bent out of sight. No cell towers in the distance. No hum of traffic. Only the occasional whoosh of long, heavy cars gliding past, their chrome flashing like fish scales.
Aurora's hand found Luxe's. "This isn't just off, is it?"
Luxe's jaw worked. "No."
They started walking anyway.
The city revealed itself slowly, piece by piece, as if reluctant to show its face to the two intruders.
First came the houses—rows of neat clapboard and brick, painted in pastel blues, yellows, and whites. Windows glowed with lace curtains. Laundry lines sagged with white sheets, the faint snap of clothespins in the wind.
Then came the people. Women in calf-length skirts and blouses, hair curled and set. Men in hats—every single one wearing a brim, like a uniform. Children on bicycles with streamers trailing from their handlebars.
Everywhere, the sound of music hummed from open windows and radios: brassy, cheerful, voices crooning about love and sunshine.
Aurora slowed, her gaze snagging on a group of children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. Chalk squares scrawled across the pavement. A little girl giggled when she missed a square, skipping back to the start.
"They look…normal," Aurora murmured.
"They are normal," Luxe said, though she didn't feel it.
The sisters stuck out immediately. Mud-stained clothes, damp hair, shoes that didn't belong to this world. Luxe caught people glancing at them, curiosity sharp in their eyes. She forced herself to keep walking, shoulders straight, as if she belonged here.
Aurora whispered, "They think we're crazy."
"Better crazy than prey," Luxe muttered.
They turned a corner and found themselves on a bustling street lined with storefronts. Luxe stopped in her tracks.
Signs swung overhead in bold lettering: Bakery. Butcher. Hardware. Woolworth's. Bright awnings shaded window displays of radios, toasters, and dresses on mannequins with cinched waists.
A newsboy on the corner shouted headlines, waving folded papers. His cap sat askew, his knickerbockers dusty.
"EXTRA! PRESIDENTIAL RACE HEATS UP! EXTRA!"
Aurora's mouth parted. "He looks like—like a Halloween costume."
"Don't stare," Luxe hissed, tugging her forward.
But she couldn't stop staring herself. Every piece of it was wrong. Every piece of it was 1952, and she couldn't yet say the words without feeling like she'd lose her grip on reality.
They passed a shoe store, and Aurora slowed again, pressing close to the glass. A row of saddle shoes gleamed under the display lights, polished and perfect.
"Our sneakers," Aurora whispered. "They'll give us away."
Luxe followed her gaze. A sign above the shoes read: Summer Sale – $4.99.
Four ninety-nine. Luxe's stomach twisted. They had nothing. No money, no ID, not even a place to sleep.
"We'll figure it out," she said, but the words tasted hollow.
They ducked into an alley between two shops, hidden from the flow of pedestrians. Luxe braced her hands against the brick wall, sucking in air.
Aurora's voice trembled. "Luce. What if we're stuck? What if this isn't—" She broke off, shaking her head. "It doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't have to make sense," Luxe said. "It just has to be survivable."
Her sister's eyes filled with tears. "We can't survive here. We don't know the rules."
Luxe caught her shoulders, pressing their foreheads together. "We learn them. That's what we've always done."
"But the date—"
"Forget the date. Focus on what's in front of us." Luxe forced her voice steady. "Food. Shelter. Work. That's what matters. The rest—we figure out later."
Aurora sniffed, nodded once. "Okay."
"Okay," Luxe echoed, though the word felt heavier than stone.
By late afternoon, the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the street. They found themselves near the edge of Chinatown, drawn by the scent of spices and the chatter of voices in a language neither of them understood.
Paper lanterns swayed overhead. Red banners hung across shopfronts. Luxe's stomach growled at the sight of roasted ducks hanging in windows, their skin lacquered golden.
Aurora's eyes lit, the fear in her expression easing for the first time. "It's beautiful."
Luxe allowed herself to agree.
They lingered at the edge of a small grocery. The shopkeeper, a woman with streaks of silver in her black hair, noticed them and frowned. She said something sharp in Chinese, then pointed at their shoes, their mud-streaked clothes.
Shame flushed Luxe's cheeks. She dipped her head, murmured, "Sorry," though she doubted the woman understood. She tugged Aurora's hand, pulling her away.
But just as they turned, the shopkeeper's voice softened. She called out again, this time holding up a paper sack. She placed an apple inside, then another, and gestured toward them.
Aurora blinked. "Is that for us?"
The woman didn't smile, but she set the bag on the stoop, then turned back inside.
Luxe hesitated, then picked it up. The apples gleamed red in the late light. She pressed the bag into Aurora's hands.
"See?" Aurora whispered. "Kindness."
Luxe said nothing, but in her chest, something loosened—something she hadn't realized had been locked tight.
They ate the apples on the walk back toward the river, the juice running sticky down their wrists. Aurora licked hers clean and laughed softly, the sound startled out of her.
Luxe stared at her sister in the dying light, at the way the color came back to her cheeks, and thought: We can do this. We have to.
But when she lifted her gaze, she caught sight of a man leaning against a lamppost at the corner. His hat brim shadowed his eyes, but his stance was too casual, too still. He lit a cigarette, inhaled, and never once looked away from them.
Luxe's blood ran cold. She gripped Aurora's hand tighter.
"What is it?" Aurora asked.
"Don't look," Luxe murmured. "Just keep walking."
They passed the corner. Luxe resisted the urge to glance back, but she felt it—the weight of his stare following them long after they'd turned.
That night, they found shelter in an abandoned shed by the riverbank. Luxe spread her damp sweater on the floor, guiding Aurora to lie down. She wrapped her sister in the diner's towel, tucking it around her like a blanket.
Aurora's eyes fluttered closed almost instantly, exhaustion pulling her under. Luxe sat awake, knees drawn to her chest, watching the shadows stretch long across the walls.
The man at the lamppost haunted her mind. So did the date on the newspaper. So did the warmth of Eileen's kindness, the gift of apples, the sound of the jukebox.
A world both alien and familiar stretched before them, and Luxe had no map to navigate it.
But as Aurora slept, Luxe whispered into the night:
We'll learn. We'll adapt. We'll survive.
The river answered with a soft, endless hush.
And somewhere, in the city's heart, a stranger lit another cigarette and wondered about the two girls who had appeared from nowhere.