Chapter 1: The Clock Strikes Thirteen
The clock in the town square struck thirteen, and with it, my journey through time began.
I was wandering aimlessly through the narrow, cobbled streets of Florence, the cool autumn air wrapping around me like a forgotten memory. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the buildings, and tourists milled about, snapping pictures of Renaissance architecture they barely understood. But I wasn’t paying attention to any of it. My thoughts were far away, caught in the endless loop of regrets and mistakes that had woven themselves into the fabric of my life.
I had come to Florence hoping to escape. To lose myself in the beauty of the city, to forget the nagging ache that had settled in my chest for as long as I could remember. But the past has a way of following you, even halfway across the world. The biggest regret, the one that haunted me more than the others, was the loss of my grandmother’s pendant. It had been my only connection to her after she passed away—a strange, intricate piece of jewelry that had always seemed out of place in the modern world. I’d lost it in a careless moment, and ever since, I’d felt like I was missing something more than just an heirloom.
That’s how I ended up in front of the clock tower, drawn to it by a sense I couldn’t explain. The piazza was quieter now, the last rays of sunlight flickering over the ancient stone. I had seen this tower a hundred times before in pictures, but standing beneath it, I felt a strange pull, as if it was calling to me.
I looked up at the face of the clock just as it struck twelve. The loud chimes echoed through the square, sending a shiver down my spine. I turned to leave, ready to find my way back to my apartment, when a sound stopped me dead in my tracks.
Thirteen.
The clock struck again.
I froze. I must’ve misheard it, I thought. But no—there it was again, the clear, undeniable thirteenth chime, hanging in the air like a note from some otherworldly instrument. The world seemed to shift around me, the colors of the buildings blurring at the edges. The sounds of the city faded, and I felt an overwhelming sense of dizziness, like I was being pulled in a thousand directions at once.
And then, everything went dark.
***
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on cold stone. The soft chatter of voices and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves echoed in the distance. My head spun, and I blinked against the harsh light of the midday sun.
Wait… midday? It had been sunset just moments ago.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows and looked around. The piazza was the same, but different. The towering buildings still stood tall, but the streets were no longer filled with modern cars and tourists. Instead, they were crowded with horse-drawn carriages, vendors selling fruit from wooden carts, and people dressed in elaborate Renaissance clothing.
I scrambled to my feet, my heart racing. Something was wrong. Very wrong. I was in Florence, but it wasn’t my Florence. The stone felt real beneath my hands, the air was cool and smelled of fresh bread and herbs, but everything was wrong.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Just breathe, I told myself. This is probably some elaborate festival or reenactment. But even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it wasn’t true. There was no festival, no modern costumes or actors. This was… real.
Suddenly, I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of shouting. I turned just in time to see a horse-drawn carriage barreling down the street toward me. My feet were frozen to the ground as the massive horse charged closer, its hooves pounding against the cobblestones.
A strong hand grabbed my arm, yanking me out of the way just as the carriage flew past. I stumbled backward, crashing into a broad chest. I looked up, dazed, into the face of the man who had saved me.
He was tall, with dark hair that curled just above his ears, his eyes a deep, piercing brown. He wore a black velvet coat, his expression one of mild concern. His features were sharp, handsome, and strangely familiar, though I couldn’t place why.
“Are you all right?” His voice was smooth, calm.
“I—yes, I think so,” I stammered, still trying to catch my breath. I looked around wildly, trying to make sense of what had just happened, of where I was.
The man studied me for a moment, a small frown tugging at his lips. “You should be more careful,” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement. “Florence is a dangerous place if you’re not paying attention.”
“I—thank you,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was thanking him for. My mind was spinning with too many questions. “Where am I? I mean, what year is it?”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by my question. “The year? It’s 1478.”
My heart skipped a beat. 1478. That couldn’t be right. It wasn’t possible.
“I—sorry, I think I must be confused,” I mumbled, backing away slightly, but the world around me remained unchanged. “This… this can’t be real.”
The man’s expression softened. “You seem lost,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I can help you.”
Before I could answer, he gestured to a quiet street that led away from the main piazza. With little other choice, I followed him.
***
We walked in silence through narrow alleys, the sound of the city fading behind us. The streets became less crowded, and soon we reached a secluded rooftop, overlooking the city of Florence. The view was breathtaking—red-tiled roofs stretching out as far as the eye could see, the golden light of the setting sun casting everything in a warm, dreamlike glow.
“Is this real?” I whispered, mostly to myself.
The man turned to me, his expression unreadable. “It’s as real as anything else,” he said. “I’m Leonardo, by the way.”
“Isabella,” I replied, still struggling to grasp the situation.
Leonardo. The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t focus on that now. My heart was still racing, my mind still reeling from the impossibility of what was happening.
He stepped closer, his gaze intense but not unkind. “You’re not from here, are you?” he asked softly.
“No,” I admitted. “I don’t think I am.”
Leonardo studied me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. “Florence can be a strange place,” he said finally. “Time moves differently here. You’re not the first person to find themselves lost.”
I looked down, my fingers brushing against the pendant around my neck. To my surprise, the pendant—the one I’d lost—was back, hanging where it had always been.
“How did you—” I started to ask, but before I could finish, Leonardo reached out, his fingers gently brushing against the pendant.
“The past has a way of finding you,” he said quietly, his hand lingering near mine. There was something in his touch, something electric, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to slow down around us. The city below faded into the background, and all I could feel was the warmth of his hand against mine.
I looked up into his eyes, my heart skipping a beat. There was something about him—something that made me feel like I had known him for a long time, even though we had just met. My breath hitched in my throat, and for a moment, I felt myself leaning toward him, drawn to him in a way I couldn’t explain.
But just as his hand closed around mine, a shadow moved at the edge of the rooftop, and I heard the soft whisper of footsteps behind us.
I spun around, but no one was there.
Leonardo’s expression darkened. “We’re not alone,” he said quietly.
Before I could react, a figure stepped out of the shadows—a tall, cloaked figure with eyes that glinted in the fading light. They were watching us, their presence heavy and foreboding.
“Isabella,” Leonardo murmured, his voice tense. “You need to leave. Now.”