The rain was loud against the study windows when the countdown appeared.
It materialized in the corner of my vision, a red number burning at the edge of the world only I could see. Seven days. Six hours. Forty-one minutes. And falling.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: RETURN TICKET ACTIVATED.]
I put down the teacup I had been holding and pressed my palm flat on the desk until the tremor stopped. It had been seven years since the system last spoke to me uninvited.
"System," I said quietly, because the house was empty and there was no one to think I was mad. "Explain."
[TRAVELER EVELYN HARPER: YOUR RESIDENCE PERMIT IN THIS WORLD WAS ISSUED WITH A CONDITIONAL TICKET. ONCE, YOU REFUSED THE RETURN JOURNEY. THE TICKET HAS REACTIVATED. IN SEVEN DAYS, IT EXPIRES.]
"Seven days," I repeated. "And then wh
