Turin, 1922

I wake with a start, my breath broken, lost in the silence of the room.

My body is enveloped in an unusual warmth, as if I have slept too long, as if time has lost its natural rhythm.

I open my eyes. The room is familiar. But it is not.

Something has changed.

The shadows stretch across the walls with a different intensity. The light is whiter, more uniform, devoid of flickers.

I slowly lift myself, scrutinizing my surroundings.

The lamps.

The torches, the candelabra... they are gone.

In their place, strange opalescent glass lamps emit a steady and unreal light. I don't understand where it comes from.

I run a hand over my face, my heart pounding. Different sheets, lighter fabrics.

I look at the furniture. The desk is still there, but it is more modern, sleeker.

The curtains... no longer heavy brocade drapes, but light linen that barely sways.

I struggle to stand, my legs heavy as lead.

The corridor is silent, but the sounds of the house have changed.

The voices of the servants have different accents. The way they move, their gestures... it is all altered.

New faces.

Then, a detail stops me.

On the nightstand, next to a glass of water and a small lamp, is my diary.

The same one.

It shouldn't be here.

I approach hesitantly, my fingers brushing against the leather cover.

I open it. The pages are intact.

Written by me.

Every word, every sentence, every thought... exactly as I had left it.

My 1850 is still here.

But I am no longer.

The world has changed before my eyes.

Then, a sound.

An impossible sound.

A screech of metal, a piercing wail that sends shivers through my nerves. It is not the creaking of a carriage.

I stop, my heart in my throat. It is the sound of something that should not exist.

I look out the window. A huge iron carriage rushes down the street.

I remain motionless, my eyes glued to that unnatural sight. It has no horses.

It shouldn't be moving.

Yet... it advances, with a steady gait, gliding over the cobblestones.

I can't catch my breath. The entire world has changed before my eyes.

Then, a voice.

A voice that takes me back.

"Ale, will you take me to Monza? You promised!"

A child.

I turn sharply, my heartbeat stopping for an instant.

A small being with dark hair, large, bright eyes, too familiar.

I stiffen. I feel it in my chest, like a dull thud.

Those eyes.

My eyes.

A child. Mine.

"Alessandro will take you to Monza, love," a voice replies.

Amalia.

She enters gracefully, a barely there smile on her lips, a demeanor that has always been familiar to me, yet now feels strangely distant.

She wears a blue dress, her hair styled in soft waves. She looks different. More adult. More... sculpted by time.

But she hasn't aged.

Have I?

How much time have I lost?

I can't breathe. The whole room seems to tilt.

"Otherwise, Uncle Michael will do it, as usual."

Michael.

My head spins. I grasp the armrest of the chair.

"No! I only want Ale!"

The child laughs.

I stare. His mouth, his smile, the dimple next to his lips.

Pietro.

I can't catch my breath. My legs tremble.

"Amalia..."

My voice is a whisper. I feel like I'm suffocating.

She tilts her head slightly, studying me with a faint grimace.

"Are you really this strange this morning? Did you drink last night?"

I don't answer.

I look around, the lights, the furniture, the air itself seems charged with a strange vibration.

The lights.

They are everywhere.

They hurt my eyes, too bright, too sharp, as if the entire world has been illuminated by a flame I do not know. They are not candles. They are not oil lamps. They are not the chandeliers I have always seen in the halls of Palazzo Carignano.

The golden heights of the ceilings shine unnaturally, reflecting the stark white glow of those... those things. I don't know what to call them. Glass spheres, hanging like trapped stars, emit a constant light, without flickers, without the breath of flames.

I instinctively look away, but the brightness follows me everywhere. Every room, every corridor, every corner is flooded with that perpetual luminosity. There are no shadows, no dimness. There is no rest.

I squint my eyes, seeking refuge in the darkness of my eyelids, but when I reopen them, the world appears even more distant, alien.

I reach out towards the nearest table, my fingers grazing the polished wood, which feels like something I do not recognize. Too smooth, almost devoid of soul. Where is the warmth of hand-crafted surfaces? Where are the knots in the wood, the little imperfections that tell stories?

Nothing.

The chandelier above me continues to shine without hesitation, as if it were alive. I don't understand. Who turns on these lights? Who turns them off?

"There's no need to turn them off," Amalia says, noticing my lost gaze.

I slowly turn towards her, my voice a broken whisper:

"What... what are they?"

She sighs, shrugs, as if my question were just another whim of a man out of time.

"Electricity, Alessandro. You should know."

Electricity.

The word is familiar. They talked about it in the salons of Turin, between conversations about wars and reforms. But it was just a distant concept, a promise of the future.

And now that future is here, above me, around me.

I feel a shiver run down my spine.

It is not just the light that bothers me. It is the certainty that the world has continued to exist without me. Where am I?

What has happened?

Then, a thought strikes me like lightning.

"What year is it?"

Amalia sighs, puffing with impatience. "In 1922, of course. Good heavens, Alessandro."

1922.

1850 has vanished.

Everything I knew... swallowed.

I bring a hand to my mouth, trembling fingers.

"And... our father?"

She observes me for a long moment. In her eyes, a different light.

Then she sighs.

"Dad died. Four years ago."

I feel like I'm going to vomit.

My breath breaks.

"And mother?"

"She retired to Racconigi, to her villa. She decided that Turin no longer belongs to her. But she oversees everything from afar, as always."

A chill slides down my spine.

"Pietro?"

Amalia lowers her gaze for a moment, a flash of hesitation in her eyes.

Then, without emotion, she replies:

"He's not here."

My heart stops.

"Where is he?"

She hesitates again. Then, in a flat tone, says:

"He's dead."

I can't breathe. I hear a whistling in my ears.

"No."

No.

"You're drunk, right? Or are you joking with me?"

My hands tremble. Something doesn't add up.

Amalia stares at me, then steps closer.

She places a hand on the child's shoulder, a nearly distracted caress.

"This is Alessandro, your nephew."

I gulp.

"My nephew?"

My heart pounds.

Amalia shrugs, a bitter smile.

"Yes. My son and Pietro's."

Pietro.

I can't get air.

Everything collapses.

Then, as if that weren't enough, she adds:

"For our mother, he was supposed to end up in an orphanage. But you..."

She stops, looking at me with an intensity I've never seen before.

"You saved us."

The room closes in around me.

The world is a whirlwind. I can't breathe.

Then, the door opens.

And he is there.

Michael.

His face, his mouth that I know better than my own voice. Those eyes, those blue eyes like a morning in England, look at me with something indefinable—relief, confusion, disbelief. His hair is messier than usual, falling over his forehead as if he has spent hours running his hands through it. His breath slightly labored.

He says nothing. Neither do I.

He grabs me.

His hands, warm, sure, clasp my face as he pulls me close, crushing me against his chest. A strong jolt, a desperate embrace. The heat of his body overwhelms me with a violence that almost knocks me off balance. His chest rises and falls rapidly, as if he has run for miles.

"Ale..."

His voice is a whisper against my hair, I feel it on my skin before I hear it. He holds me tightly, arms wrapped around my back, a firm grip, too strong. As if he fears I might dissolve in his arms.

I... I feel it. His heartbeat. It's frantic. He presses my head against his shoulder, his breath mingling with mine.

"You're here..."

His mouth brushes against my neck as he whispers those words, and it's as if he is marking me.

I grasp the fabric of his shirt between my fingers. It's real. It's tangible. He is real.

Michael pulls back slightly, just to seek my gaze. His brow furrows, as if he wants to say something but cannot find the words. Then he touches me.

His fingers slide over my face, along my jaw, his thumb lingering on the corner of my lips, as if he wants to ensure that I am tangible, that I am truly here.

"I'm just as shaken as you are," he murmurs, his voice low enough to seem like a whisper within his chest. "When I woke up here, not knowing how I got here... without remembering anything that had happened before... I thought I was going mad."

My breath catches.

Michael shakes his head, a fragile smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I had to keep calm. But I knew it had to do with the pendant. I could feel it... and I felt that you would arrive. You are my anchor, Ale. You always have been."

His hand returns to the nape of my neck, sinking into my hair as he pulls me closer again, our faces mere centimeters apart. His breath is warm on my lips, and I feel my skin burn.

"You are mine."

The words slip from my lips before I can stop them, and Michael closes his eyes for a moment, his chest rising with a broken breath.

Then he holds me tight.

Not with the fear of a moment before. This time with the awareness of one who knows he will not let go again.

"I will always find you," he says, and his mouth grazes my temple, his lips moving against my skin like a prayer.

I close my eyes, sinking my fingers back into the fabric of his shirt.

It doesn't matter where we are.

It doesn't matter when.

Michael is here.

And that is all that matters.

In his arms...

The same scent.

Lavender. Tobacco.

Michael.

My skin recognizes him before my mind does, my body tenses slightly, as if something inside me responds to that fragrance without needing to think.

A calling.

A return.

And for the first time since I opened my eyes in this time that does not belong to me, I feel at home.

And for the first time since I opened my eyes in this time that does not belong to me, I feel at home