Bound by the Missing Hours

The air in the small room was thick with the scent of dried sage and something indefinably earthy. The shaman, a woman whose eyes seemed to hold more sunsets than years, leaned forward, the shadows cast by the single candle dancing across her face. "You have a very interesting past and future," she stated, her voice a low, resonant murmur. I felt a cold prickle of alarm under my skin. "What do you mean?" I managed, the surprise stealing my breath. I had only come here with a knot of immediate dread—the haunting recent events, the unsolved murder that was eroding my peace. Now, this unexpected pronouncement felt like a trapdoor had opened beneath me, promising something vast and terrifying. The shaman’s gaze pinned me in place. "You are destined to walk the world until the end of time in this life, but you will not be walking alone. A love long lost—an old love—will soon reappear at the moment you need them most." She paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "As for what brought you here today... I can only tell you this: the path you are walking is one shrouded in darkness and mystery, a deep labyrinth. You must solve the case before you. Only then can you fulfill your destiny." My shock was a physical blow. An old love? My mind seized on a single memory: Alex. My first love. He had been brutally murdered two years ago, the case file gathering dust and despair. His body had been identified, his funeral held. It was the unresolved injustice of his death that had driven me to seek out this place, hoping for some spiritual closure. Does this woman see a connection? A horrible, impossible thread connecting my destiny to a grave that should contain him? "Impossible," I whispered, the word sharp with refusal. My brain, logical and desperate, rejected the chaotic information. The shaman smiled, a faint, knowing warmth. "You'll see when you get home." Before I could question the cryptic cruelty of her reply, the sharp chime of my phone cut through the silence—a text. Please come home, Uncle. I stared at the screen, then back at the shaman, my confusion twisting into fear. My uncle was my rock, my only remaining family. "What is waiting for me at home?" I demanded, the composure I had fought for crumbling. "A love that has withstood lifetimes," she replied softly, "and one that heals the hole in your heart and protects you from what is to come." She didn't speak of ghosts; she spoke of a life. I reached for my wallet, needing to ground the moment in reality, to offer payment for the unsettling prophecy. But an ancient, warm hand covered mine, gently pushing the leather away. "This consultation is free." "Why?" "I am the start of the payment that fate is giving you in return for everything it has taken," she said, her eyes suddenly intense. "Now, leave and hurry home." I fled. The few minutes' drive home was a blur of pounding adrenaline. My thoughts were a cyclone: Uncle called me. Is he hurt? The shaman's words. Alex. The darkness. I couldn't bear the thought of losing my uncle, the last, familiar anchor in my increasingly unhinged life. I finally reached the house. His familiar car was parked in the drive, a small comfort, but my panic propelled me up the stairs. I wrenched the front door open, heart hammering against my ribs. "Uncle! Uncle?" I called out, the sound desperate. "In here!" his voice boomed from the living room. "And I've brought someone to see you." Someone? The shaman’s prophecy echoed, cold and clear. I reached the living room door, my hand shaking on the brass knob. "Who?" "Me," a young man replied, the voice familiar yet deeper, matured. I pushed the door open, my feet cementing to the floor. The hand holding the knob remained fixed to the brass. I drank in the sight of him: the jet-black hair, the familiar, sharp line of high cheekbones, and the unforgettable brown eyes. He was broader, taller, dressed in clothes I didn't recognize, but the face—the face was exactly the same. The face of the man who had been dead for two years. He stood there, alive and whole. My first love. My dead friend. "Alex?" The name was a fragile question, a sound stripped of rhetoric or disbelief. It was the last breath of my normal life. Darkness, swift and sudden, crashed in on my vision. The last thing I registered was the look of pure terror on 'Alex's' face as he surged forward to catch me.