The morning mist cloaked London in 1889 like an old wound that had never healed. But this was not the London known from history books. The mist wasn't grey, but faded copper with a gleam like old blood. Floating clocks hung in the sky, each showing a slightly different time, as though the city could not agree on when the present was supposed to be. People hurried down the cobbled streets, heads down, avoiding each other, and most strikingly.... not a single one of them mentioned the day. As if naming the day might summon something they all tried to forget.
Elias Thorn awoke, breath ragged. Not because of a nightmare.... but because the dream was too real. In his sleep, he had heard Livia, his long....lost sister, speaking from behind something that wasn't a wall, wasn't mist, and wasn't time. The ritual had returned, almost exactly like the nights before: clocks froze in the air, whispers from liquid metal, and ancient symbols that burned his eyes even before he could read them.
Elias.... 23 years old, pale olive skin inherited from his mother in Alexandria, a body athletic as someone accustomed to running from danger and towards forbidden ruins.... sat at the edge of the bed, drawing a deep breath. His green eyes were like moss growing on gravestones, full of depth that didn't allow anyone in. His dark curly hair was cut raggedly, as if trimmed by time itself, not by human hands. He wore a dark brown jacket with bronze buttons, and from his neck hung a silver chain necklace, with a pendant of an ancient Egyptian key, the last heirloom from his mother. His leather boots.... worn but well....kept.... sat not far from where he stood.
On his left palm, a scar shaped like an Ouroboros.... a serpent eating its own tail.... was faint but never faded. The wound wasn't from an accident. It was a mark. A legacy. A curse.
The pocket watch on the nightstand stopped at 13:13. He had tried it countless times, opening and closing its metal case, twisting the small knob on top. No change. Since Livia disappeared, the watch had never moved again.
Knock. Knock.Three knocks on the front door, heavy and rhythmic, as if set by a broken metronome. Elias recognized the pattern. He grabbed a small metal rod from beneath the bed.... not a weapon.... more like a tool from a future that hadn't come yet.... and stepped down.
Standing behind the door was a tall, thin figure in a grey wool coat and a top hat. The man smiled without teeth.... or perhaps too many teeth. His eyes were wide open, but never blinked.
"Good morning, Mr. Thorn," he said. "Do you feel.... disconnected from time this morning?"
"Mr. Wexley," Elias sighed, stepping aside. "Come in if you must."
Mr. Wexley, his neighbor who was never seen eating or sleeping, stepped in lightly. His shoes made no sound on the wooden floor. He carried an old scroll and a sealed red....and....gold envelope.
"This map," he said, handing over the first scroll, "shows the path of the latest temporal crack along the River Thames. It will shift in two days, maybe thirty years, depending on which angle you're looking from."
Elias accepted the scroll wordlessly.
"And this," Wexley continued, handing over the envelope, "is an invitation. Or perhaps a threat. It's hard to tell the difference these days."
The seal on the envelope was a closed sun, a symbol he had only seen in dreams or broken memory fragments. Inside was only one sentence, written in red....and....gold ink:
"Take The Sealed Solar Codex to the Old Smith Warehouse before 13:13. Or Livia will belong to Time."
The ink seemed alive. The letters flickered for a moment before fading. Elias clenched the letter, his teeth grinding. Time, he thought. They always blamed Time. But Time was never guilty. Time just moved. It was humans who twisted it.
"What do they want from me, Wexley?" he asked.
Mr. Wexley looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer was written between the cobwebs and wood cracks.
"They want you to return to the starting point. To the moment where you made a choice that never happened."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer available this morning."
And as usual, Mr. Wexley stepped out without a word, vanishing into the copper mist like an actor leaving a stage that no longer needed his role.
Elias stood in the doorway for a long moment. In the distance, the faint sound of a bell chimed from Big Ben.... but its tone was shrill and reversed. He looked at the sky: one large clock floating above an old bank building was.... melting.
The Old Smith Warehouse was located in a part of the city that only appeared when the sky was thick enough with clouds and time showed something between one o'clock and twelve that had already died. He knew he had to bring the Codex.... an artifact that should not have been moved from the vault where he had sealed it himself.
But now, even the vault could lie.
Elias turned towards the pocket watch still lying still on the table. He grabbed his jacket, slipped the watch into his inner pocket, and stepped out.
The mist welcomed him like the hand of an old friend.
And in the distance, a whisper was heard.... not through the air, but through his very veins:
"Livia is still alive. But not for long."