Elara descended the attic stairs on legs that felt like water. The house was alive with discord the clocks still chiming erratically, their bells overlapping in a cacophony that set her teeth on edge. She slammed into the library door, fumbling for the latch, and burst inside. The candles she had lit earlier guttered wildly, flames stretching tall and thin as though pulled by an unseen wind. Shadows danced on the walls, longer than they should be, twisting into shapes that almost resembled hands reaching out.
She collapsed into the wingback chair, Theo's letter crushed against her chest. Her breath came in sharp gasps. The echo of his voice—her voice saying his name, but returned in his deep, resonant timbre—still rang in her ears. It had been real. Not imagination. Not grief playing tricks. The veil between their worlds had thinned to the point of tearing, and whatever guarded it had stirred.
The grandfather clock in the hall finally fell silent, its last chime fading into an oppressive quiet. Elara forced herself to stand, crossed to the window, and peered out. The Wiltshire night was still, stars unmoving. No silhouette at the edge of the garden. No cloaked figure lurking in the shadows of the downs. Yet her skin prickled, as though unseen eyes lingered just beyond sight.
She needed to respond. Quickly, as he had begged. She grabbed fresh paper from the desk drawer—her hands shaking so badly the quill skittered across the surface—and began.
Theo
I heard you. Not just your name in the wind. Your voice low, urgent, laced with wonder carried back to me through the open window. It brushed my skin like a touch. The house answered. Clocks rang wild; the hourglass cracked like glass under pressure. Sand is pouring now, steady as a heartbeat gone mad. And in the attic... something watched me. A shadow without a face, cloaked and still. It vanished when I looked away, but I felt its gaze like ice on my neck.
I am safe—for now. But the relic is changing. The curse is waking. Your words terrify me, yet they light something fierce inside. If you are coming for me, then know I am waiting. Whatever the cost. Whatever it takes. I will find a way to meet you halfway.
I love you too. Recklessly. Completely. Hold fast.
Elara
She sealed it hastily, wax dripping unevenly, and raced back upstairs. The attic felt colder, the air thick with dust and something metallic, like blood or old coins. She laid the letter beside the hourglass. The fracture had widened slightly, a jagged line now spidering across both bulbs. Sand continued to flow faster, a thin golden river.
Elara backed out, closing the door firmly, as though that could contain whatever was awakening. Downstairs, she brewed strong tea with trembling hands and sat in the kitchen, staring at the wall clock that had frozen at 13:13. Her mind raced. This was no longer just a romantic fancy, letters crossing time like star-crossed whispers. It was dangerous. Real. The curse Theo had mentioned in passing the ancestral hex bound to the relic was no legend. It was here, stirring in the shadows.
She needed answers. Her grandmother had been a collector of oddities books on folklore, relics from estate sales. Elara rifled through the library shelves until dawn, pulling down volumes on Wiltshire legends, Regency-era curses, time artifacts. One book, Whispers of the Veil: Forgotten Relics of England, caught her eye. Yellowed pages, published in 1897. A chapter on "Time's Heart" described an hourglass forged by a scorned alchemist in 1726, bound to a family line after a betrayal in love. "The relic demands balance," it read. "To fill an empty heart across eras requires sacrifice. Beware the guardian shadow—it feeds on unrequited longing and devours those who dare cross."
Elara slammed the book shut. Sacrifice? Guardian shadow? Her pulse thundered. She needed more. Perhaps the British Library archives held digital records, but she couldn't leave Willowmere not with the hourglass pouring sand like a countdown.
As the first light crept over the downs, she returned to the attic. Her letter was gone.
In its place lay Theo's reply fresher than ever, ink gleaming wet.
Elara, my love
Your words arrived in a rush, the envelope materializing before my eyes as I paced my study. The hourglass here trembled violently; sand surged through a new fracture. I heard your voice again my name on your lips, carried back like an echo from the future. It filled me with joy and dread. Joy because our bond is strengthening. Dread because the curse senses it too.
My mother woke screaming from another nightmare a faceless shadow at her bedside, whispering of empty hearts and stolen time. I calmed her with lies, but her eyes held accusation. She knows the family stories better than I. Beatrice wrote from Bath, urgent: the assembly clocks ran backward again last night; a chill fell over the room mid-dance. Even Edmund, ever the skeptic, sent a note teasing about "ghostly interruptions" during his card game in London. Something is rippling outward, touching those close to me.
I cannot wait passively. This morning I rode to Oxford, to consult Dr. Silas Hawthorne, the antiquarian my father trusted. His rooms are a labyrinth of books and curios dusty tomes on alchemy, maps of ley lines across the downs. He examined the hourglass (I brought a sketch; the relic itself dares not leave the house). His face paled. "Time's Heart," he murmured. "The guardian is no myth. It is the curse incarnate—a shadow born of the alchemist's betrayal. It will test you. Demand proof of love's worth. Fail, and it consumes both hearts."
He spoke of a ritual on the equinox—aligning mirrors and incantations to thin the veil safely. But the sands are falling too fast; the equinox is weeks away. We may not have time.
Yet even as fear grips me, your confession ignites something brighter. You love me. Recklessly. Completely. Those words are armor against the dark. I picture you in the attic, fierce and beautiful, facing the shadow without flinching. I picture holding you at last your dark curls against my chest, your green eyes lifting to mine, your lips parting for the kiss we have written into existence.
Tell me you are researching too. Tell me what you find in your world's books or wonders. Tell me how to strengthen our bridge without shattering it. And tell me—when I come through, what will be our first words? Our first touch? Dream with me, Elara. Let the dreams pull us closer.
I enclose a gift: a locket from my mother's collection. Open it. Inside is a miniature portrait my likeness, painted last year by a Bath artist. Wear it close to your heart. Let it remind you I am real, not just ink and longing.
Hold fast. The spark between us will become a flame. The curse cannot extinguish what fate has kindled.
Theo:
Elara's fingers fumbled with the envelope. Something small and hard fell out a gold locket on a delicate chain, oval-shaped, engraved with vines mirroring the hourglass frame. She clicked it open. Inside, a tiny portrait: Theo, captured in exquisite detail. Dark hair swept back, hazel eyes thoughtful and intense, a faint smile curving his lips. He looked exactly as she had imagined tall, slender, with a quiet strength that made her breath catch.
She fastened the chain around her neck. The metal was warm against her skin, as though his hand had just released it. Tears pricked her eyes. This was tangible proof metal and paint crossing centuries.
But the hooks of danger tugged. The guardian shadow. Sacrifice. Ripples affecting others. What if her friends in London felt it? What if the curse reached beyond Willowmere?
She wrote back immediately, her quill flying.
Theo:
Your locket arrived warm, as if your fingers lingered on it. The portrait steals my breath—you are more handsome than my dreams allowed, your eyes holding secrets I long to unravel. I wear it now, close to my heart, feeling your presence like a second pulse.
I am researching. An old book here describes the guardian as the alchemist's bitterness made manifest. It tests love's purity with trials visions, distortions, whispers of doubt. We must prove our bond is not fleeting. The equinox ritual sounds promising; I'll search for modern echoes perhaps folklore sites or digital archives. My world has "internet," invisible threads connecting knowledge globally. I'll use it to find more.
The sands here flow relentlessly. The fracture widens. Last night the shadow returned briefly in my dreams cloaked, faceless, whispering that love across time is theft, that one heart must pay for the other. I woke sweating, but your locket grounded me.
When you come through, our first words? "At last." Our first touch? Your hand in mine, fingers interlacing, pulling me close until no centuries remain between us. Then a kiss—slow, claiming, erasing every empty moment.
Dream with me too. Tonight I'll walk the downs under the stars. Meet me there in thought. Let the spark become fire.
I enclose my own gift: a photograph of me, taken last year in London. It's like a frozen painting colors true, details sharp. See my crooked smile, my green eyes. Know the woman who waits for you.
We will prevail. The curse underestimates us.
Elara
She folded in a small photo from her wallet—her at a café, smiling softly, hair curling in London mist. She sealed it and placed it beside the hourglass.
Hours passed in a blur. Elara paced the garden, then drove to nearby Salisbury for supplies—candles, mirrors, herbs mentioned in the book. The town felt normal, bustling with tourists at the cathedral, but she jumped at shadows, felt eyes on her back.
Evening fell. She walked the downs as promised, locket warm against her skin. Stars bloomed overhead. She whispered his name, felt a faint warmth spread through her—like distant firelight.
Back home, the attic held his reply.
He described the photo in awe: Colors so vivid, your smile lighting the page like sunlight. You are radiant, Elara—eyes like emeralds, hair a cascade of night. I keep it hidden in my breast pocket, touching it when doubt creeps in.
He had consulted Madame Seraphine Duval, the French mystic in London. She warned of trials ahead—shared dreams turning to nightmares, time loops trapping us in regret. But she gave hope: true love's spark can burn the guardian away.
Their letters deepened. Theo confessed vulnerabilities: I fear I am not enough for your world—machines that fly, lights that banish dark. What if I step through and disappoint?
Elara reassured: *You are my world now. The spark you ignite needs no machines.
But hooks emerged. In his letter: The shadow appeared to me tonight—whispering that our love will demand a life. Whose? It taunted.
Elara's reply trembled: *Ignore it. Lies to divide us.
Yet as she sealed it, the hourglass shuddered. Sand surged. The fracture split wide.
Downstairs, a knock echoed—impossible at midnight.
Elara froze. No visitors. No neighbors close.
The knock came again—insistent, from the front door.
Heart pounding, she approached, peering through the peephole.
No one.
But on the step lay a sealed envelope—not from the attic. Wax red, heart empty.
A message from the curse itself?
She opened the door, snatched it, slammed it shut.
The handwriting was neither hers nor Theo's—crabbed, ancient.
Choose wisely. One heart fills; the other empties forever.
Elara dropped it, backing away.
The spark had become a blaze.
But what if it consumed them both?
(to be continued…)