Chapter 1
756 Words
She opened her eyes to a strange stillness.
No honking cars.
No city sirens.
No flashing lights.
Only snow. Drifting slowly from a pale sky and landing on her bare arms. She was lying on a cold cobbled street, still in her black evening dress and heels.
She sat up, dazed. The air was crisp and quiet. Around her were buildings that didn’t belong—brick cottages with smoking chimneys, wreaths on every door, and a horse-drawn carriage rolling by as if it were the 1800s.
The scent of cinnamon and pine hung thick in the air, and her stomach growled—a sharp reminder she hadn’t eaten since Marcus ruined her night. She instinctively reached for her phone, remembering the last text he sent. But her hand met nothing. Her phone wasn’t there. Her purse wasn’t either. Her chest tightened.
“What the hell…” she muttered, standing shakily. Heads began to turn. People dressed in cloaks, bonnets, and suspenders stared at her like she’d fallen from the sky.
And maybe she had.
She took a step backward, heels clicking awkwardly on the stones, her breath visible in the cold. Then—
“Miss? Are you alright?”
The voice came from a man with warm brown eyes and a thick scarf around his neck. He looked concerned… and very confused.
Evelyn stared at him, unsure whether to scream or ask where she was.
Because wherever she was, it definitely wasn’t Los Angeles.
And it sure as hell wasn’t December 2025.
"Miss..?" He said again attempting to come closer.
She took another shaky step back, eyeing him suspiciously. He didn’t move, just watched her carefully.
“Don’t come closer,” she said, voice firm.
He nodded, his expression calm. “I won’t. I only meant to help. You looked… lost.”
Her eyes flicked up, studying him. He looked no older than thirty. His coat was thick wool, buttoned neatly to the neck, and his boots were splattered with slush. Everything about him screamed period drama. Which made no sense.
“Who are you?” she asked, hugging her arms around herself.
He dipped his head slightly, a polite half-bow. “Jacob Cobbler. Baker, by trade.” He gestured behind him to a storefront with warm light glowing through frosted windows. “That’s my shop there. And you?”
She hesitated. “Evelyn.”
“Just Evelyn?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
She nodded once, her voice tight. “Evelyn Carter.”
He looked her over with quiet curiosity. “Strange name. Not common around these parts.”
"These parts?" She asked staring at him looking for any sign he was joking.
"I apologize I do not mean to offend Miss, perhaps you're here to visit uhh... family?"
Her brow creased. "Jacob... alright. Jacob. Where am I?"
He looked at her strangely, as if the question made no sense. "Angelvale, of course."
"Angelvale?" she echoed, as if tasting the word.
"Yes. Bit outside the city proper, but not too far from the main crossing."
She blinked, the name unfamiliar — old, earthy. "Okay... and Los Angeles? How do I get to Los Angeles from here?"
Jacob's expression shifted, half-confused, half-worried. "Los... what, now?"
"Los Angeles... LA, or you've also not heard of it in these parts? .." She asked sarcastically.
He shook his head slowly. “Can’t say I have, Miss.”
She ran a hand through her hair and let out a shaky laugh, the cold seeping deeper into her bones. “Okay, this is not happening. This is not happening. Evelyn you are so f*****g done for"
Jacob took a cautious step closer. “Would you like to sit, Miss? You look pale.”
“No—don’t come closer,” she said quickly, backing up. “I’m fine. Just… fine.”
Her legs wobbled beneath her, but she refused to fall apart in front of this… this baker from the Twilight Zone.
She folded her arms tightly. “Okay. Let’s start over. Angelvale, right?”
Jacob nodded slowly.
“And… what year is it?”
His brow furrowed again. “Year?”
“Yes. The year. You know—numbers? Time? Calendar?”
“Oh. Well, it’s the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-three.”
Evelyn’s jaw slackened. “Eighteen… what?”
Jacob’s gaze softened. “You really ought to get out of the cold. You look half-frozen.”
Evelyn was already turning away, her mind racing. No phone. No purse. Nothing at all to make sense of this situation.
- Writer
