The apartment was too quiet.
The strange relic Mrs. Hawthorne had gave me, sat on the small dining table. It was round, carved from bone or ivory, etched with symbols that shimmered faintly when I looked too long. I didn’t know what compelled me, but I crossed the room slowly, drawn by it like a moth to flame.
I touched it.
And the world exploded.
The apartment fell away. The floor vanished from beneath me. I spiraled into a blinding storm of light and memory.
Voices.
Laughter.
A garden in spring.
I opened my eyes—but they weren’t my eyes anymore.
I stood in a lush garden bursting with color. Vines wound up marble pillars. Lanterns floated in the air like golden stars. The scent of jasmine was thick and sweet. My dress shimmered like moonlight, brushing the tops of jeweled sandals
