Chapter 16
1196 Words
The world returned to Alven Rowe in pieces.
First came the cold — sharp, wet, seeping straight through his coat. Then the smell of river water, thick and metallic, mixed with the faintest sweetness of woodsmoke. When he opened his eyes, all he could see was fog. Heavy, unmoving, a pale curtain swallowing everything more than a few steps from where he lay.
He pushed himself upright slowly, muscles shaking, mind hazy from the jump. His hands sank into damp soil. Not pavement. Not the cracked asphalt of the park where Evelyn’s accident had happened. This ground was too soft, too wild, too untouched.
His heart thudded.
He stood, swaying for a moment, trying to steady his breathing.
Time travel. Successful — that much he could confirm. But the rest… the rest he wasn’t sure about.
He looked around. Beyond the blanket of fog, he could just barely make out the dark suggestion of water moving — a river, wide and slow. The sound of it echoed strangely, muffled by the thick morning mist. Trees leaned inward along the bank, their branches dripping with dew. No cars. No streetlights. No footpaths. No sign of the century he came from.
Definitely the past.
But not the right place.
His chest tightened. “Evelyn…?”
His voice was swallowed instantly by the fog.
He reached into his coat with trembling fingers. The photograph was still there — folded twice, the corners softened from being handled too many times. A printout from the hospital records, the only image he had access to. Her hair pushed behind her ear, her eyes serious and gentle all at once.
He stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it back into his pocket.
This wasn’t where she had landed. He had assumed — foolishly, he realized now — that the tear would drop them in the same location. But the physics of temporal displacement were never that predictable. He had been desperate, rushing, working from chaotic readings. He should have known better.
A faint creak broke through the silence.
Alven stiffened. Footsteps. Wood groaning. Something shifting through the fog.
He turned.
Shapes moved — slow, careful, approaching along a narrow dirt path that hugged the river. Then a lantern flickered, its warm light pushing a weak golden glow against the grey. Behind it rolled a wooden cart, the wheels squeaking in protest.
A man guided the cart forward, tall, wrapped in a thick wool coat. His hat drooped with moisture, and his boots were smeared with mud. He stopped when he spotted Alven.
For a moment, they stared at one another through the fog.
Then the man lifted his lantern. “You lost, stranger?”
His voice was deep, weather-worn.
Alven tried to speak normally, steady. “I think so. I… wasn’t supposed to end up here. What town is this?”
The man raised a brow. “Town? This here is Brackenford Wharf.” He nodded down the river. “Main settlement’s a bit north. You’re standin’ near the trade road.”
Brackenford Wharf.
He had never heard of it in any historical record.
Alven swallowed. “Does this place… get travelers?”
“Some,” the man said, studying him. “Fewer this season. Fog scares most off. Where you comin’ from that you don’t know where you are?”
Alven hesitated. He couldn’t say “New York, 2025.” Not unless he wanted to start a panic.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said instead, reaching for the photo. “A woman. She may have passed through here — or nearby.”
He unfolded it, keeping the edges pinched so the fragile paper wouldn’t dampen further.
The merchant leaned closer, lantern light brushing Alven’s face and then the photograph.
His eyes narrowed. “…That’s a strange sort of drawing.”
“It’s a… new style,” Alven said quickly. “But have you seen her? Somewhere nearby?”
The merchant studied it longer — long enough that Alven’s hope rose for one breath too many — then he shook his head.
“No. Never seen her.” He glanced upriver. “Though, new folks tend to head toward Alderbridge Town. Bigger place. More inns. More passersby. Might be someone there who’s seen her.”
Alderbridge.
Another place he had never heard in any historical records.
“Thank you,” Alven said.
But the merchant didn’t move immediately. He continued staring at Alven — his clothes, his shoes, his posture — as if they didn’t belong. And of course they didn’t.
“You look like you’ve been dropped here out of nowhere,” the man finally said. “Mind my askin’ where you’re really from?”
Before Alven could answer, a deep voice cut through the fog.
“Hey! You there!”
Another figure emerged, boots striking the dirt with authority. A man with a leather vest, a deputy’s badge pinned crookedly to his chest, and a rifle slung against his back.
Deputy Rook.
He slowed only slightly as he approached. “You. Stranger. Haven’t seen you around Brackenford before.”
Alven kept perfectly still. “I just arrived.”
“That so?” Rook’s gaze slid down to the photo in his hand. “What’s that you’ve got?”
Alven folded it quickly. “Just a picture. I’m searching for someone.”
Rook stepped closer. His expression hardened when he caught a glimpse of the odd, too-clean paper and the crisp image on it.
“Where’d you get that?” the deputy asked.
“It’s… complicated.”
“Everything’s complicated when someone’s hidin’ something.” Rook studied him like a wolf sizing up prey. “You travel alone?”
“Yes.”
The deputy didn’t look convinced. But after a tense moment, he jerked his chin toward the road. “Brackenford’s ahead. Keep your nose clean while you’re here. And don’t go wanderin’ too far off the docks. Fog’s thick enough to swallow a man whole.”
With that, he stepped past them, boots crunching.
The merchant exhaled. “That one doesn’t like strangers much.”
“I noticed.”
The man adjusted the lantern on his cart. “If you’re headin’ toward Alderbridge, follow the river road. It’ll take you half a day or so. But mind the fog — it doesn’t always lift ‘til noon.”
Alven nodded.
The merchant stepped back onto the path. “Hope you find your lady.”
He disappeared into the fog, the creaking of the cart fading slowly, swallowed by silence.
Alven stood alone again.
Except now, the loneliness felt deeper — heavier. He pulled out the photograph one more time, thumb tracing Evelyn’s face.
“You’re here somewhere,” he murmured. “I know you are.”
A breeze rolled across the river, cold enough to raise goosebumps on his arms. Fog swirled, shifting like living smoke.
Then — faint, distant — something echoed from upriver.
A voice?
A whisper?
Or maybe just the wind.
Alven turned sharply, heart hammering.
The fog thickened. Something moved within it — a shape, or a shadow, or perhaps nothing at all.
He took one step forward.
The river whispered back.
- Writer
