Chapter 1: The Man From My Dreams
Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the same man from her dream standing in front of her—in a different century.
I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. Maybe it was because I had already seen him so many times in my dreams, or maybe it was the way the moonlight filtered through the old ironwork of the Parisian balcony, casting soft shadows around us. It felt like a scene from a movie—one I’d seen a thousand times before, but never in waking life. Yet, here I was.
The man’s dark, steady gaze met mine, his face both familiar and completely foreign. He didn’t speak at first, but I could feel the words hanging in the air between us, thick and heavy. Was he real? Was any of this real?
I took a step forward, my heart racing, my mind screaming that this was impossible. I’d been at my piano just moments ago, in my tiny apartment in New York City. Now I was… here. And so was he. The man who had haunted my dreams for weeks.
I had never been able to see his face clearly before, but now, under the glow of the moon, every detail of him was vivid. He wore a crisp suit, the kind you’d only see in old photographs, and the faint smell of cigars and something spicy clung to him. His hair was neatly combed back, dark and gleaming, and his jawline was sharp, as if chiseled from stone. But it was his eyes that held me captive—deep, bottomless eyes that seemed to hide a thousand secrets.
He took a step toward me, and I could barely breathe.
“Claire?” he asked softly, his voice like velvet, roughened slightly at the edges.
How did he know my name?
“I… I know you,” I whispered, the words tumbling from my lips before I could stop them.
“You don’t know me. Not yet,” he said, his lips curving into a half-smile, the kind that made my stomach flip.
I opened my mouth to ask how he knew me, how any of this was happening, but before I could speak, the world began to spin around me. The soft hum of a jazz band drifted up from the street below, but the Parisian skyline started to blur and shift as if someone had taken a paintbrush to reality and begun to smudge it.
My legs wobbled, and the last thing I saw was the man rushing toward me before everything went black.
***
I woke up in my own bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of my apartment. My fingers clutched the satin sheets as if holding on to reality itself. For a moment, I wondered if it had all been another dream—a strange, vivid dream. But when I sat up, something cold and metallic pressed against my leg. I looked down and gasped. The pocket watch.
It was there, glinting in the faint morning light seeping through the curtains. I hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t known it existed until last night. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. It looked old—ancient, even—covered in intricate engravings that I couldn’t decipher. But I felt drawn to it, as if it held all the answers I didn’t even know I was searching for.
I didn’t have time to think too much about it. My best friend, Lucy, was already at the door, pounding with her usual enthusiasm.
“Claire! You’re late!” she called through the door.
I quickly shoved the watch into my pocket and threw on my clothes. Lucy always tried to pull me out of my little world. She believed that all my late-night piano playing and my tendency to lose myself in old books were signs that I was “living in the past.” But what if I actually was?
***
Later that day, sitting in a café with Lucy, I barely heard a word she said. My mind kept drifting back to the pocket watch and the man from my dream—or whatever it had been. Could it really have happened? I sipped my coffee, letting the bitterness roll over my tongue, grounding me in the present.
“Claire, you’re a million miles away,” Lucy said, snapping her fingers in front of my face.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Just… thinking.”
“About your mystery guy again?” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows.
I gave her a weak smile. I’d mentioned the man from my dreams to Lucy once, and ever since, she had insisted I had some sort of psychic connection with my future soulmate. If only it were that simple.
“Come on, Claire. You’re always in your head. Why don’t you go out tonight? There’s a jazz club down the street. They’re playing that 1920s stuff you love,” Lucy suggested, nudging me.
The idea settled in the back of my mind, but I wasn’t thinking about the music. I was thinking about the pocket watch. And the man. Something about it all felt connected, like invisible threads weaving a pattern just beyond my reach.
***
That night, I found myself wandering the streets, drawn by the music spilling out of the jazz club Lucy had mentioned. The sound of a saxophone filled the air, and I felt my feet moving on their own, guiding me through the door.
The club was smoky and dim, filled with the clink of glasses and the murmur of laughter. The music was alive, filling every corner of the room with its rhythm, pulling me in deeper. But my eyes scanned the crowd, searching for something—or someone.
And then I saw him.
He was sitting at a small table near the back, half-hidden in the shadows, but there was no mistaking him. It was the man from my dreams. The same suit. The same watchful eyes.
I felt a pull, like gravity, as I made my way through the room toward him. My heart pounded in my chest as I stopped in front of his table.
“You,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the music.
He looked up, his eyes locking with mine, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. He didn’t look surprised. It was as if he’d been expecting me.
“Claire,” he said again, in that same velvet voice. “I told you. You don’t know me yet.” My breath caught in my throat. “But I will, won’t I?”
His smile was faint, but it sent warmth spreading through my chest. “Yes. You will.”
***
We talked for hours, the rest of the world fading into the background as he told me stories of a time long gone. It was like stepping into another life, a life that felt strangely familiar. The way he spoke, the way his eyes lingered on me—it was as if he knew every thought running through my mind before I did.
As the night wore on, we found ourselves alone in a small garden behind the club. The moonlight bathed us in a soft glow, and the scent of jasmine filled the air. I could feel the tension between us, like the final notes of a song waiting to be played.
He reached out, his hand brushing against mine, and my heart stuttered. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I took a step closer.
“What are we doing?” I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in, his lips just a hair’s breadth away from mine, his breath warm on my skin. My eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, I thought this was it—that this was the moment everything would fall into place.
But just before our lips touched, the pocket watch in my hand began to glow, its soft hum growing louder.
I gasped, stepping back, and the man’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—fear, maybe? Or regret?
Before I could ask what was happening, everything around me began to blur and shift once again. The garden, the club, the man—they all dissolved into a haze, pulling me back into the unknown.
***
The last thing I saw before the world went dark was the man reaching for me, his face filled with desperation, as if he were trying to hold on to me before I disappeared completely.