Claude
Mara found the entrance behind a waterfall no map had ever marked. The stone steps descended far longer than should have been possible, spiraling down through layers of earth and time until she emerged into a cavern so vast its ceiling disappeared into shadow. Floating lanterns drifted through the air like lazy fireflies, casting pools of amber light that made the darkness between them seem alive with possibility.
The smell of old paper and lemon oil hung in the air of Sterling Memorial Library like a benediction. Maya Chen had spent three years as a graduate research assistant here, navigating its labyrinthine stacks and Gothic reading rooms, and she thought she knew every corner. But it wasn’t until Professor Hartwell died—suddenly, at his desk in the history department—that she discovered how wrong she’d been.
His final email to her contained no greeting, no signature. Just a single line: What did we trade for progress?
The bell above the door chimed, and the café rippled like water disturbed by a stone.
Nia had stopped noticing the transitions years ago—three years in this timeline, anyway. The neon sign outside flickered from pink to electric blue, and suddenly the man at table four was wearing a different tie. The woman by the window had shorter hair. The rain outside became snow, then reverted to rain again.