THE TIME BETWEEN US

Amara Vale had always believed that some people were born with beautiful lives while others had to fight for every little piece of happiness they received. Unfortunately, she belonged to the second category. At nineteen, Amara had learned how to smile when she wanted to cry, remain silent when people misunderstood her, and pretend that nothing hurt when everything did. She had become so skilled at hiding her feelings that even the people who claimed to know her often failed to notice when she was struggling. But Amara had a secret. She had never stopped dreaming. Sometimes, when the world became too heavy, she imagined herself living somewhere else. Somewhere she would not have to prove her worth to people who had already decided she was unimportant. Somewhere she could finally become the person she had always wanted to be. In her dreams, she was never the girl standing at the edge of the crowd. She was the girl everyone had been waiting for. Unfortunately, dreams had never paid her bills or changed her circumstances. So she learned to keep them to herself. That Wednesday evening, dark clouds gathered above the city. A cold wind swept along the pavements, and people hurried home before the approaching rain. Amara walked among them with her old backpack hanging from one shoulder. Her phone battery was almost dead, her stomach was empty, and she had barely enough money to get home. She stopped beneath the awning of a closed shop and examined her reflection in the dark window. Her black curls had become untidy from the wind, and a small tear marked the sleeve of her jacket. "You look like you've been fighting a war," she murmured. She attempted a smile, but the reflection still looked tired. Her phone vibrated. An unfamiliar number had sent her a message. UNKNOWN NUMBER: SOME THINGS ARE BETTER LEFT FORGOTTEN. Amara frowned. "Spam," she muttered, deleting the message. She continued walking, determined not to waste another minute thinking about it. She had more important problems to worry about. Her future remained uncertain, and the scholarship application she had submitted weeks earlier had not received a response. She was tired of waiting for good things to happen. More than anything, she was tired of being told to remain patient by people who had never experienced what it felt like to watch their dreams slowly disappear. Lightning flashed across the sky. Rain began falling heavily. Amara pulled her jacket over her head and hurried towards the narrow road leading to her neighbourhood. That was when she noticed the shop. It stood between a shuttered pharmacy and an abandoned restaurant. She was certain she had never seen it before, despite having walked along that street countless times. A wooden sign hung above the entrance. VALE & SONS — ANTIQUITIES, RARE OBJECTS AND LOST HISTORIES. Amara slowed down. Vale. Her surname. She stepped closer to the window, curiosity overcoming her desire to escape the rain. Behind the dusty glass stood shelves crowded with old books, silver ornaments, porcelain figures, and objects she could not identify. But one object caught her attention. At the centre of the display lay a golden necklace resting on dark velvet. Its delicate chain shimmered beneath the dim light. The pendant resembled a sun surrounded by seven stars, with a deep red stone at its centre. Amara leaned closer. The necklace looked familiar. She could not explain why, but something about it stirred a strange feeling inside her. For one brief moment, she heard a woman's voice whispering her name. Then the memory vanished. "What is wrong with me?" she whispered. Before she could step away, the shop door opened. An elderly woman stood in the doorway. She wore a long dark dress, and her silver hair was gathered into a neat bun. Her eyes studied Amara's face with unsettling intensity. For several seconds, neither spoke. Then the woman sighed. "You are late." Amara blinked. "Sorry?" "Your mother said you would come." Amara froze. "My mother?" The woman gestured towards the entrance. "Come inside." "I think you've mistaken me for somebody else." "No," the woman replied. "I haven't." Amara hesitated. She had no reason to trust a stranger who claimed to know her mother. Yet something about the woman's expression made walking away surprisingly difficult. "What is your name?" Amara asked. "Seraphine." "Do you know my mother?" A shadow crossed the woman's face. "I knew her better than you could ever imagine." Amara's throat tightened. Her mother had died when she was young, leaving behind only scattered memories of a gentle voice, warm hands, and a lullaby Amara could no longer remember completely. Her mother had never told her about mysterious shops or ancient necklaces. At least, not that she could recall. "How do you know my name?" Amara demanded. Seraphine reached into her dress and produced an old piece of paper. Written across its front were two words. AMARA VALE. Amara stared at the handwriting. For reasons she could not explain, it seemed familiar. "Where did you get that?" "From someone who loved you enough to sacrifice everything." "Give it to me." "Not yet." "Why?" "Because once you understand the truth, you will never return to the life you have known." Amara gave a nervous laugh. "This is ridiculous." "Perhaps," Seraphine replied. "But you are still standing here." Before Amara could respond, a loud crack split the sky. The shop lights flickered. Then every light on the street went out. Darkness swallowed the road. Amara instinctively reached for her phone, but its screen had gone black. When she looked up, Seraphine was staring towards the opposite end of the street. For the first time, the elderly woman looked genuinely afraid. "Oh, no," she whispered. "What is it?" Seraphine seized Amara's wrist. "Listen carefully. Whatever happens next, do not let anyone take the necklace from you." "What necklace? I haven't bought anything!" Seraphine looked towards the shop window. The necklace had disappeared from its display. Amara glanced down. It was lying in her palm. She had not entered the shop. She had not touched the display. Yet the golden chain rested in her hand as though it had always belonged there. Amara dropped it. The pendant struck the pavement, but instead of breaking, its red stone released a pulse of golden light. The light spread across the wet ground. Streetlights flickered back to life. Then everything stopped. A man crossing the road froze in the middle of a step. Rain hung motionless in the air, and a nearby taxi stood perfectly still. Even the wind had disappeared. Amara looked towards a clock visible through a shop window. 11:11 p.m. The clock's hands were frozen. So were every other clock she could see. Everything had stopped except Amara and Seraphine. The elderly woman picked up the necklace and pressed it into Amara's hand. "Take it." "No. I don't want it." "You must." "Why me?" Seraphine's expression softened. "Because you are the only person who can finish what your mother began." Amara stared at her. "What did my mother begin?" Before Seraphine could answer, footsteps sounded from the darkness behind them. Slow. Deliberate. Seraphine turned, and the colour drained from her face. "No," she whispered. "He cannot be here yet." Amara looked towards the street. A tall figure stood beneath a flickering streetlight. He wore a long black coat, and his face was hidden beneath a hood. Strangely, the rain seemed unable to touch him. When he raised his head, Amara caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were golden. The same strange colour she had sometimes seen in her dreams. The stranger smiled. "At last," he said. "The lost heir has awakened." Seraphine stepped in front of Amara. "You have no right to come here." The stranger tilted his head. "Rights are written by the people who survive, Seraphine. You should know that better than anyone." Amara looked between them. "Who is he?" Neither answered. The stranger began walking towards them. Seraphine grabbed Amara's shoulders. "You must leave. Now." "Leave where?" "Anywhere but here!" The necklace grew hot in Amara's palm. She gasped, attempting to release it, but her fingers would not open. The red stone shone brighter, filling the street with a golden glow. The stranger stopped. For the first time, his smile disappeared. "Seraphine," he said sharply. "What have you done?" The elderly woman began whispering words Amara did not understand. The air trembled. A circle of golden light appeared beneath Amara's feet. She stumbled backwards. "Stop!" the stranger shouted. The circle widened, and the ground beneath her seemed to dissolve. Amara reached for Seraphine, but the woman's hand slipped from hers. "Remember who you are!" Seraphine cried. Amara screamed as darkness swallowed her. She felt herself falling, though there was no ground beneath her and no wind against her face. Images flashed around her: towering castles, burning banners, soldiers riding through mist-covered fields, and a woman wearing a magnificent golden crown. Then she saw a young man standing inside a palace. He wore black and gold royal robes, and an ornate crown rested upon his head. His face was beautiful but cold. His golden eyes met hers. For one terrifying moment, Amara felt that he could see straight into her soul. Then he spoke. "Welcome home, Princess." Everything went black. When Amara opened her eyes, rain was falling on her face. She sat up sharply, expecting to find herself lying on the familiar pavement. Instead, she found herself in the middle of an enormous field. Wet grass surrounded her. Dense forests stretched across the distant hills, and beyond them stood an enormous stone castle with towering walls and crimson banners. Amara stared in disbelief. "No." She scrambled to her feet. There were no cars, no streetlights, and no modern buildings. Soldiers wearing metal armour rode through the castle gates, carrying spears and swords. A horse neighed nearby. Amara turned as a rider approached her. The soldier dismounted quickly, staring at her as though he had seen a ghost. "My lady?" Amara took a step backwards. "I'm sorry?" The soldier dropped to one knee. "By the seven stars, we thought you were dead." "Get up!" He obeyed slowly, still staring at her face. "Princess Amara," he whispered. Amara's heart began pounding. "You have the wrong person." "No, my lady. I could never mistake your face." A horn sounded from the castle. Once. Twice. Three times. The soldier looked towards the gates, his expression suddenly fearful. "They know you're here." "Who knows?" "The king's council. The royal guards. And the man who ordered your family erased from history." Amara tightened her fingers around the necklace. "What year is it?" The soldier looked at her as though the question itself were dangerous. "1487, my lady." Amara shook her head. "That's impossible." "Not here." He extended his hand. "Come with me. If the prince reaches you first, you may never discover the truth." Amara looked towards the castle. Something in her chest told her to run. Something else told her that this place had been waiting for her long before she was born. She took one hesitant step towards the soldier. Then she noticed the banner above the castle gate. A golden sun surrounded by seven stars. The exact symbol engraved on her necklace. Beneath it hung a portrait of a young woman wearing a royal crown. The woman's face was identical to Amara's. Written across the bottom of the portrait were five words. THE LOST PRINCESS HAS RETURNED. Amara stopped breathing for a moment. She stared at the portrait, then at the castle, then at the necklace in her hand. She had spent nineteen years believing that she was an ordinary girl with an uncertain future. Now she stood in a world that claimed she was a princess. A world that had apparently been waiting for her. A world where someone had tried to erase her family from history she screamed.