Chapter 1: The Cathedral of Echoes
The moment I stepped into the old cathedral, the air shifted.
It was like walking through a veil, from the bustling streets of modern Florence to something older, heavier, and drenched in mystery. I had been here a thousand times before, but never like this. Today, everything felt different, as if the cathedral itself was watching me.
Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting vibrant colors on the cold stone floor. My footsteps echoed, soft yet insistent, as I wandered deeper into the cathedral. I didn’t even know what had drawn me here, only that I felt like I had to come. It was an impulse I couldn’t shake, a need to see… something.
I wasn’t sure what.
The nave opened up before me, vast and silent. In the center of the room, a solitary painting hung against the far wall, one I had never noticed before. A woman stood alone in the painting, her face half-covered by shadows, her eyes burning with an intensity that sent a chill down my spine. Her face was familiar.
It was me.
My heart raced as I took a few tentative steps closer, studying the brushstrokes. The likeness was uncanny—every detail, every curve of her features. I reached out, my fingers hovering just inches from the canvas, feeling the magnetic pull of something beyond my understanding.
And then I touched it.
A sharp wind whipped through the cathedral, carrying with it the smell of burning candles and distant bells. The floor beneath me shifted. I stumbled, blinking rapidly, and when I opened my eyes again, everything had changed.
The world had tilted. Gone were the modern pews and electric lights. Instead, I stood in a dimly lit cathedral, candle flames flickering in bronze holders. I turned in a circle, heart pounding in my chest. The cathedral was the same but not. It was as though I had stepped backward in time.
I rushed outside, desperate to understand what had just happened. The streets were different too, filled with people in robes and tunics, horses pulling carts, and vendors calling out their wares. The Florence I had known, the city of tourists, espresso, and cameras, had vanished.
I was in Florence, but not my Florence.
The fear gnawing at my stomach tightened. I had to find someone—anyone—who could tell me what was happening.
Just as I turned the corner, a man appeared in my path, his cloak billowing behind him like something from a painting. He stopped abruptly, his eyes locking onto mine. He was tall, with dark hair swept back and eyes that seemed to see through me. There was a stillness in his posture, an air of command that sent a shiver through me. He didn’t look away.
“You,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like silk brushing over stone. I froze, unsure if I should run or answer. “Me?”
He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “You don’t belong here.” My heart hammered. “What do you mean?”
His lips curled into the slightest smile, but there was no warmth in it. “You’re not from here. I can tell.”
His words sank into me like a stone falling into deep water. He knew. But how? Who was he? Panic surged, but something about him held me still. He was a stranger, yes, but there was something familiar in his eyes, as if I had seen him before, maybe in another life.
“I… I don’t know how I got here,” I admitted, the words trembling on my tongue. He took a step closer, his expression unreadable. “What’s your name?” “Isabella,” I whispered, almost unsure of it myself.
“Lorenzo,” he replied, his name rolling off his tongue like an incantation. He studied me for a moment, and I felt a strange pull toward him, like he held the answers to questions I didn’t even know how to ask.
“I can help you,” he said, his voice steady. “But you need to trust me.”
I hesitated. Trust a stranger? In a time I didn’t understand? Yet, something about him made it impossible to turn away. His dark eyes held a promise, something hidden beneath the surface that I couldn’t quite grasp but felt drawn to. I nodded, even though every part of me was screaming to run the other way.
He gestured for me to follow, and I walked beside him, feeling as if the world had slowed down. The streets were full of life—artists, merchants, children running past with bright eyes—but I barely noticed them. All I could focus on was him.
We turned a corner and entered a quiet courtyard, hidden away from the noise of the city. The stone walls were covered in ivy, and in the center, a small fountain gurgled, the water catching the light. Lorenzo stopped at the edge of the fountain, his face softened by the dim glow of dusk.
“I need to know more,” I said, my voice shaking. “How did I get here? What is this place?” He looked at me, his expression unreadable. “Florence. The year is 1478.”
I gasped, the reality of it slamming into me like a wave. “That’s impossible…” “Impossible?” he repeated softly. “And yet, here you are.”
The weight of his words settled over me. I was in the past, centuries from everything I knew, from the life I had lived. It was overwhelming, terrifying. My knees wobbled, and I sank onto the edge of the fountain, the world spinning around me.
Lorenzo moved closer, his presence grounding me. “You’re not the first,” he said quietly, almost as if he was speaking to himself. “There are stories. Legends. Of people like you.”
My head snapped up. “People like me?”
He nodded, his gaze intense. “Travelers, caught between times.”
I opened my mouth to ask more, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. His face was strong, his eyes holding a thousand unspoken thoughts. There was something about him—something magnetic, drawing me in despite the fear gnawing at my stomach.
“You said you can help me,” I whispered.
He knelt beside me, his hand brushing against mine. The touch was electric, sending a shock through my entire body. I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. There was something between us, a connection that felt deeper than time itself, something that defied logic and reason.
“I can help you,” he repeated, his voice low, “but it won’t be easy.”
I swallowed, feeling the warmth of his hand against mine. My heart raced, not just from fear, but from something else—something I couldn’t name. I should’ve pulled away, should’ve asked more questions, but I didn’t. Instead, I leaned closer, caught in the pull of him, of this strange, impossible connection.
And then, just as our faces neared, just as our breaths mingled, a shadow moved in the corner of the courtyard. My heart skipped a beat as I looked up, my eyes locking onto a figure standing in the shadows, watching us.
The figure disappeared before I could even scream.
“Lorenzo,” I whispered, panic creeping into my voice. “We’re not alone.”
His eyes darkened, and without another word, he stood, his body tense and alert. “We need to leave. Now.”