September 25, 1885

Lorenzo hit the ground first with a heavy thud.

Not stone—something softer.

A battered mattress.

Before he could even process it, Ethan came screaming down after him.

"GET OFF—!" Ethan's voice cut off as he landed flat, the old mattress collapsing under his weight.

"Move," Lorenzo muttered quickly, rolling aside just in time.

Then—

Haider.

Then Zuri.

They crashed into Ethan in a chaotic pile of limbs and shouting.

"Sorry—sorry!" Zuri gasped, scrambling off him.

Haider groaned beneath them. "Why does everything hurt..."

He pushed himself up, then froze.

"...Geez, it stinks."

Silence.

Something about his voice didn't sound right.

Zuri looked up sharply. "Haider?"

He frowned. "What?"

That's when she noticed it.

Lorenzo wasn't just taller.

He had a beard.

Ethan's hands were larger—too large. His shoulders broader, his voice lower when he spoke. He didn't look like a fifteen-year-old anymore, but rather in his early twenties.

Zuri slowly looked down at herself.

"...Guys."

Her voice came out different. Older.

Thicker.

Something like fear crept in.

"...we're old."

Ethan stared at his hands in horror. "WHAT?!"

Lorenzo touched his beard, grimacing. "Great. I'm old."

⸻

Meanwhile, Loralie moved quickly through the crowded marketplace, keeping her head down.

Something was wrong—but she already knew that.

The clothes. The language. The weight of the air.

This wasn't just the past.

It was real.

She had found a shawl that was laying around near a perfume stand, likely owned by the stand owner and tried blending into the crowd. She didn't look like she belonged there but she had to survive.

For now.

⸻

She found a dress shop and decided to enter, needing better clothes it fit in. A bell chimed as she stepped in.

Rows of gowns filled the room—corsets, lace, hats with feathers—everything overly delicate and unfamiliar.

"Welcome!" a voice chirped.

A woman appeared almost instantly, short and round, smiling too brightly.

"I'm Clarabelle! What brings you here, pretty girl?"

Loralie forced a polite smile. "I need something simple."

"Oh, of course!" Clarabelle beamed. "We have long, short, tight, loose, plain, sparkly—or even—" she leaned in, whispering, "scandalous."

Loralie blinked. "...Right."

⸻

After too much talking and not enough silence, Loralie finally chose a dress: soft pink, pearl-trimmed, modest but elegant.

When she looked in the mirror, she paused.

Her face looked sharper.

Older.

Like time had already started changing her.

Like this place had already decided who she was going to become. Nobody had the right to choose who she will be. This is bullshit.