Chapter 1: The Stranger in the Memory
The pocket watch was not meant to be there.
And the most peculiar part?
The watch was still ticking.
Mara had been contracted to restore the contents of the abandoned Harrighton residence after its new owners unearthed a collection of antiques hidden away in the attic.
Most of the items were mundane: tarnished silverware, cracked porcelain, faded photographs, and jewelry that had long lost its style.
However, the jewelry box was an exception.
According to the inventory records, it had belonged to a woman named Annie sombre, who had passed away without any heirs.
The box itself was crafted from black walnut, adorned with intricate silver vines that curled around the lid as if they were alive.
Mara was nearing the completion of its restoration when her fingertips grazed a seam that shouldn't have existed.
She halted.
There it was again—an odd sensation beneath her skin, a faint pressure behind her ears, as if someone had softly whispered her name from beyond a closed door.
Mara withdrew her hand.
“No,” she murmured to the empty workshop. “Not tonight.”
She had learned to disregard such sensations whenever possible.
Objects often carried emotional echoes, particularly those that had belonged to individuals who had endured suffering. Most of the time, these impressions were faint enough to overlook.
But this felt different.
It felt as though someone was waiting.
She flipped the jewelry box over, examined its base, and discovered a tiny brass catch hidden beneath the carved vines.
A gentle push released a narrow wooden panel.
Inside layed a pocket watch wrapped in a strip of faded black silk.
Mara gazed at it.
The watch possessed a beauty that was unsettling. Its silver casing was tarnished with age, and delicate patterns of thorns surrounded the glass face.
Instead of numbers, there were twelve tiny symbols she couldn't understand.
The hands had halted at 11:47.
The precise moment she had discovered it.
A nervous, disbelieving laugh escaped her.
"That’s not creepy at all."
She should have photographed it, recorded its condition, and placed it in a protective case. Those were the rules she was supposed adhered to with every valuable artifact.
Instead, she picked up the watch.
The instant her fingers touched the silver casing, the workshop vanished.
Rain pounded against tall windows.
Somewhere nearby, an alarm blared.
A man knelt on a marble floor, his black shirt drenched with rainwater, his hands trembling as he held a woman against his chest.
Mara couldn't see the woman's face.
But she could sense her fear.
The man's grief was so intense that it nearly caused Mara's knees to buckle.
“Look at me,” he implored the woman.
“Please. You have to look at me.”
His voice cracked.
“I did everything you asked. I tried to save you.”
The woman stirred weakly.
“Lucien...”
The name hit Mara like a blow.
She didn’t know anyone named Lucien.
She had never encounter the name before.
Yet something deep within her recognized it.
The man bowed his head against the woman's forehead.
“Don't leave me,” he whispered.
“You promised you wouldn't leave me.”
Then the woman spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
“If you ever find me again...”
A pause.
“Don’t let me love you.”
The scene shattered into bits and peices that very second.
Mara stumbled backward, dropping the watch onto the workbench. Air rushed into her lungs as she fought to regain her balance.
For several moments, she stood frozen.
She had heard memories before—fragments of laughter, echoes of arguments, occasional bursts of grief attached to an old photograph or a wedding ring.
Never anything this vivid.
Never anything that felt like she had been immersed in someone else's life.
And never a memory that seemed to recognize her.
Her phone vibrated against the workbench.
Mara flinched.
A message from Noah.
Don’t come home tonight.
She stared at the screen.
Her younger brother had been missing for six months. His apartment was empty, his bank account untouched, and every official record of his existence had mysteriously disappeared.
The police insisted there was no proof that Noah Ellery had ever lived at the address she provided.
But Mara remembered him.
She recalled his terrible jokes, the way he would steal food from her plate, and the promise he made the night before he vanished.
I’ll come back, Mara. I swear.
She had sent him countless messages since then.
Not one had received a reply.
Her fingers trembled as she opened the message details.
Noah's name was displayed at the top.
The timestamp read 11:49 p.m.
Mara glanced at the pocket watch.
Its hands were moving.
One slow, deliberate second at a time.
Then the screen went dark.
A new message appeared.
This time, it was from an unknown number.
You found it.
Mara's blood ran cold.
Another message followed.
Whatever you do, don’t let Lucien Harrighton find out you remember him.
Before she could respond, someone knocked on the workshop door.
Three deliberate knocks.
Then a man's voice came through the wood.
“Mara Ellery?”
She remained silent.
The man spoke again.
“My name is Lucien Harrighton. I believe you've found something that belongs to me.”
Mara looked down at the watch.
The glass face had cracked.
And beneath it, where the twelve strange symbols had once been, a name was slowly emerging.
MARA.
If there is one thing Mara knows from antique restoration., its that you shoul never turn a blind eye on antiques that knows your name.
