Chapter 1: The Typewriter’s Secret
I never expected the old typewriter to change my life. Dusty and forgotten, it sat in the corner of my small apartment, its keys silent for decades. I had seen it so many times before—an heirloom from my grandmother, passed down without explanation. But that night, as I stared at it from across the room, something felt different. The air seemed heavier, and the room felt smaller. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I got up, walked over to the desk, and placed my fingers lightly on the keys.
Suddenly, the typewriter sprang to life.
Its ancient keys clicked and clattered on their own, like invisible fingers tapping out a story. At first, I thought I was dreaming, or maybe it was some kind of trick. But the words appeared clearly on the blank sheet of paper in front of me, spelling out a name I hadn’t heard in years—Lyra.
My name.
I stared at the page, my heart pounding in my chest. How was this possible? I hadn’t touched the keys, yet there it was, as real as the light filtering through the window. And then, as if it were beckoning me to follow, the typewriter continued to write.
“She stood on the edge of time itself, torn between the past and the future. Her heart yearned for what was lost, but she couldn’t go back—not without losing everything.”
I swallowed hard, my fingers trembling as I reached for the page. The words felt strangely intimate, like they were written just for me. But they didn’t make sense. Why would a typewriter, an object that belonged to my grandmother, be telling a love story I had never heard? The air in the room seemed to hum, the walls closing in, as though something—someone—was watching me. My breath hitched.
I took a step back from the desk, trying to gather my thoughts. Something wasn’t right.
That’s when the words changed.
“Lyra, it’s all connected. You’re part of this story, whether you know it or not. It began with you, and it will end with you.”
***
My thoughts raced as I read and reread the message. It began with you. What could that possibly mean? I had never been a part of anything significant, not in the grand scheme of things. My life was small, predictable—a comfortable routine as an archivist for the Historical Council. I spent my days in the vast libraries of the city, cataloging old relics and documents. I preferred the quiet company of forgotten history to the noise of the world outside.
But the words on the page felt personal, like they were calling me out of that quiet. And suddenly, I felt an overwhelming need to understand. What was this story? How did I fit into it?
***
That’s when the memory surfaced—the man from the mission. Kian.
I hadn’t thought of him in years, not since that strange day on Mars Colony Seven. It had been a brief encounter, a flash in the scope of my otherwise uneventful career. We were sent there to study remnants of an ancient Martian civilization. I was fresh out of the academy, eager to make my mark. And there he was—Kian, a fellow researcher, older than me, quiet, mysterious. There had been a pull between us, something magnetic and undeniable, but we were too focused on the mission to act on it.
Still, I never forgot the way his dark eyes lingered on mine, or the way he smiled as if we shared a secret. The connection had been intense, but fleeting. After the mission ended, we went our separate ways, and I convinced myself it was nothing.
But now, standing in my apartment, that memory felt too vivid. Too real.
***
The typewriter clattered again, jolting me from my thoughts. The words appeared faster now, more urgent.
“You have to remember him. The story is yours to finish.”
My hands shook as I tore the sheet from the machine. Remember him. How could this be happening? The typewriter couldn’t possibly know about Kian. Could it?
I sank onto my bed, my mind swirling with confusion. I knew I had to let go of the past—of Kian and that strange, unfinished connection. But deep down, I wondered if that’s what this was all about. Maybe the typewriter was reminding me of the love I had left behind.
Before I could think further, the typewriter began typing again, the sound filling the room with a steady rhythm. This time, it wasn’t just a message. It was a story.
***
In the dim light of my apartment, I read the unfolding tale. It was about a woman—someone with my name—living in a distant time and place, a city I didn’t recognize, filled with towering structures and strange, flickering lights. She was an explorer, caught in a web of secrets and danger. But more than that, she was in love. And it wasn’t just any love—it was a love that defied time itself.
Her lover was a man from another world, a mysterious traveler who had appeared out of nowhere, just as she was about to give up on everything. He was brave, but distant, always hiding something. They would meet under the stars, exchanging whispers about faraway planets and forgotten futures. But no matter how close they became, she could never quite reach him.
The story unfolded with a dreamlike quality, the words drawing me in deeper, pulling at my heartstrings. And before I knew it, I was crying. Not because the story was sad, but because it felt so familiar. The yearning, the distance—it mirrored everything I had felt with Kian, all those years ago. The way he had seemed so close, yet always just out of reach.
I hadn’t realized how much I still missed him.
I leaned back on my bed, letting the words wash over me. The romantic tension in the story built slowly, beautifully—two souls drawn together, but always kept apart by forces they couldn’t control. It reminded me of the night I had spent with Kian after our mission was complete. We hadn’t kissed, hadn’t even touched beyond a brief handshake, but the connection was undeniable. We had sat on the roof of the research base, staring up at the Martian sky, the stars flickering like whispers of the past. I had wanted to say something, to tell him how I felt, but the words had stuck in my throat. I wondered now, as I read this story, what might have happened if I had been braver.
The typewriter paused. I wiped away my tears, taking a shaky breath.
And then, just as I thought the story was over, the final message appeared.
“Lyra, the time to finish the story is now.”
The room began to blur, the edges of reality melting away like a painting splashed with water. I tried to stand, but my legs felt heavy, as though they were sinking into the floor. Panic surged through me as the walls warped and twisted. My apartment disappeared, replaced by something else—something older, more ancient.
The last thing I saw before everything went dark was the typewriter, its keys frozen mid-sentence.
And then, I was gone.
***
When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in my apartment anymore. The air was thick, warm, and unfamiliar. And standing before me, staring at me with eyes that seemed to know every secret I had ever kept, was a man I had never met but instantly recognized.
It was Kian.