"Some fires don’t start with fmes. They start with a name."

  ?? Song Suggestion: "Experience" – Ludovico Einaudi

  The city outside was a blur, smudged under the weight of rain. Harrison Kessler stood behind the counter of his bookshop, the familiar scent of paper and ink mingling with the damp air creeping through the windows. The shop was quiet, as it always was at this hour, the low hum of the world outside barely making it past the thick gss. He moved slowly, almost mechanically, adjusting the dispy of Turner’s paintings that had arrived earlier in the day. The dark, violent swirls of color on the pages seemed to reflect the unease stirring in him—unease that had settled into his bones over the past few days.

  His fingers brushed the edges of the books, but his mind was elsewhere, caught between a dream he couldn't quite remember and a feeling he couldn’t escape.

  The bell above the door chimed—a soft, almost hesitant sound. It wasn’t a jarring noise, but it made him pause, his breath catching slightly, the sudden shift in the air too sharp for comfort. He gnced up. The rain outside had thickened into a relentless downpour, and for a moment, it seemed as if the world had narrowed to just the light spilling across the floor of the shop. The door swung open, the wind carrying in a chill, and there she stood—a woman in a gray coat, dark curls clinging to her skin, her eyes wide and uncertain.

  “I— I think I’ve got the wrong door,” she said, her voice breathless, a little anxious, as if she had been running. She stepped back, clutching her suitcase to her side as if trying to find her footing in an unfamiliar pce. “I just moved in across the hall, and I thought this was…”

  Her voice trailed off, and for a moment, they simply stood there, her gaze locked with his.

  Harrison’s heart thudded in his chest. The world around him felt like it stilled, as if the universe had decided to hold its breath for a brief second, drawing them together in some inexplicable moment of recognition. He didn’t speak at first—couldn’t, really. The feeling in his chest was foreign, but intensely familiar.

  There was something about her. Something about the way she looked at him, as if she were trying to pce him, too.

  A flicker of something—no, not a flicker. A vision. A woman in blue, reaching for him through thick smoke. A fire. A door he couldn’t open. It was gone as soon as it arrived, leaving only a lingering sense of loss.

  She shifted uneasily, the moment stretching too long, and finally broke the silence. "Sorry," she ughed, her voice tinged with embarrassment. "Weird first impression."

  And just like that, the moment shattered. Her smile was awkward, embarrassed. She shifted her suitcase and stepped back into the hallway, turning to leave, her footsteps soft against the wood.

  Still, Harrison stood there, staring after her, the strange sensation lingering like smoke in his lungs. He hadn’t asked her name. He hadn’t even spoken. But something told him that this wasn’t the st time he would see her.

  Later that night, after the shop was closed and the rain had turned into a steady drizzle, Harrison y in bed, staring at the ceiling. The images from his dreams had started again—the same ones he couldn’t escape, the same flickers of memories he couldn’t quite pce. A hallway. Velvet carpet. A woman in a blue dress.

  But it was the words—those words—that haunted him.

  “Don’t forget me this time.”

  He bolted upright in bed, gasping for air, the room too still, too quiet. His lungs burned as though the fire had followed him here, as though he had breathed it in from the dream. His hands shook as he reached for the mp, the light flickering weakly to life. He gnced around the room, his heart pounding in his chest.

  It was just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream.

  He ran his fingers over his neck absently, the spot there—a small, round scar—itching with a strange intensity. It hadn’t bothered him before. But now, it throbbed, the sensation pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.

  When his hands settled back against the bnket, he gnced at his bookshelf. One book in particur caught his eye. The spine of The Architecture of Memory stuck out from the others, almost as if calling to him.

  He hadn’t remembered moving it, but there it was. He slid it from the shelf, opening the first page.

  A torn, old piece of parchment slipped free. Harrison froze. He hadn't noticed it before. It was as if the page had appeared overnight, lodged within the book like a forgotten memory.

  The writing on the fragile paper was scrawled in looping script, and it took him a moment to decipher the words. But when he did, his stomach twisted painfully:

  My name is Emilia Lemaire. If you’re reading this, then I failed. Again.

  ?? Read Next: Chapter 2: "The First Thread Unraveling" - Emilia’s name is on the parchment, but she swears she’s never been here before. So why does her voice sound like the one from his dreams?