To my dearest

"He was real. Just 4 centuries too soon."

When Mae Fenton moves into the flat on Thorne Hill Lane, she expects quiet nights and second-hand furniture , not a letter written four centuries ago.

The note is signed Evander Thorne, dated 1598, and sealed with the mark of a man who shouldn't exist. Out of curiosity, Mae writes back, slipping her reply into the same drawer she found it in. By morning, her letter is gone.

And another waits in its place.

Through a desk that defies time, Mae and Evander begin an exchange that blurs the boundary between centuries. His world is lit by candlelight and war while hers hums with electricity and ache. Their words become the thread that binds them - delicate, impossible, and centuries apart.

But time keeps its own kind of mercy. And love, when it comes too late, becomes a wound that never learns to heal.