Tangled In Time

Shadows

"No way, it can't be," I whispered to myself, my pulse quickening.

The man remained silent, his piercing eyes travelling slowly from my feet to my face. Then, with a single finger pressed to his lips, he silenced me before I could say another word. His movements were calm but purposeful as he stepped toward the door, cracking it open just enough to peer into the corridor beyond.

The tension in the room felt suffocating. After a brief pause, he eased the door shut again and pulled a small golden key from his pocket, turning it in the lock with a soft click.

Only then did I notice how much the room had changed. The once-abandoned library now looked pristine and alive. Rows of immaculate shelves were packed with books, and a massive desk near the window overflowed with papers and open ledgers. A plush red sofa lined one wall, its fabric rich and untouched, while the woodwork gleamed, catching the golden light filtering in.

I glanced down at myself, suddenly hyperaware of how out of place I looked. My fitted crop top and cycling shorts, both slate blue, felt absurd in this meticulously historic setting. My dark, curly hair, tied in a high ponytail, swayed slightly as I turned my head, loose strands brushing my cheek. It felt like I had stepped into another world—one where I clearly didn't belong.

The man—Blake Winslow—leaned back against the door, folding his arms as he studied me. His tailored brown waistcoat and dark cravat made him look like he'd stepped out of a painting. The sharpness of his jawline and the intensity of his grey-blue eyes only made his resemblance to the portrait in the foyer more unnerving.

"Could you please unlock that door?" I tried to sound assertive, but my voice betrayed me, cracking halfway through.

He raised an eyebrow but didn't move. "I know where you've come from, and you need to go back," he said, his low, polished voice carrying a hint of irritation.

The pounding in my head grew worse. My gaze darted between him and the transformed room, my breath quickening. It felt as though the ground beneath me had shifted.

"This... this can't be real," I murmured. "You look exactly like—"

"Enough," he interrupted, his voice firm. "Listen to me carefully. I mean it when I say you don't belong here." His tone softened slightly, though his guarded expression remained. "You need to leave."

Ignoring him, I stumbled toward the red sofa, collapsing onto it. My head spun, and nausea twisted in my stomach.

"This is my house... kind of," I muttered weakly, more to myself than to him.

Blake sighed and moved closer, crouching in front of me. His sharp features softened ever so slightly. "It might be your house," he said carefully, "but you're not supposed to be here now."

I blinked at him, trying to process his words. "What does that even mean? Is this some kind of prank? Or... am I dead?"

He frowned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "You have no idea what you've done." He stood abruptly, walking over to the desk and shuffling through a pile of papers, as though searching for something to occupy his hands. "You didn't come here on purpose, did you?"

"No," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I was playing hide and seek with my brothers. I climbed into the dumbwaiter to hide from Tom. I panicked and pulled the cord to lower myself, and then... I don't know. I ended up in the cellar. But it wasn't the same—it was like it was still being used. Everything was spotless." I hesitated, glancing at him. "And then you grabbed me."

Blake paused, his brow furrowed. "So, you didn't know what the dumbwaiter could do," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

"What do you mean, what it could do?" I asked, a hint of fear creeping into my voice.