The Door Between Times

I remember the moment I entered the city. It felt like there was something—a rhythm, faint but persistent, pulsating beneath the surface. It was not just the hum of machines or the distant chatter of people. No, it was something else, something alive.

The buildings were all tall, giant conglomerations of glass and stone that seemed to breathe. I could see the faint glow of patterns etched into their surfaces as I walked the streets-lines that pulsed in a synchronized dance. They reminded me of veins carrying blood, except instead of red, they pulsed with a silvery-blue light.

At first, I thought it was just a trick of the strange twilight bathing the city, but the longer I stared, the surer I became. These weren't just structures, these were buildings-something more-connected, watching.

I kept walking, the steps cautious, taking in the scene around me: people moved with purpose, their faces hidden behind hoods or masks, their eyes set aside or fixed on small curiosities each one held. Some of those humming softly, others giving quick flashes of light that made my skin shiver.

And yet, within the throngs of people, I was completely and utterly alone.

Or maybe not.

The feeling of being watched crawled down my spine. I whirled around, expecting to find eyes on me, but the street behind me was empty except for the ruffled shimmer of heat rising from the ground. The pulse of the buildings quickened-or maybe it was my imagination.

I ducked into a narrow alley, hoping the unease would fall behind. The walls were closer here; the light was dimmer. The air was thick with the faint tang of metal and ozone. My boots splashed through puddles that reflected the same glowing veins I had seen in the buildings-the city's lifeblood was everywhere, connecting everything.

Even here, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed.

By the time I got to the room I had woken up in, my nerves were on edge. The door clicked shut behind me, and for a moment, I just stood there, my back to the cool wood, trying to still my breathing.

The room was as I had left it: fire crackling softly in the hearth, shelves lined with books and trinkets, the strange clock ticking away its alien rhythm.

But something was off.

I glanced about, peering for what it was that made me uncomfortable, my eyes falling on the mirror.

It stood inconspicuously in the corner, its frame richly carved with symbols I couldn't identify. Up until this moment, I had hardly given it a thought - too engrossed by the book and the view of the city outside the window. Now it seemed to glare at me from across the room.

I began to creep slowly toward it. My reflection reflected back, yet something was somehow wrong.

At first, I couldn't place it. My face, pale and drawn, looked just as I had remembered it. Then I saw the eyes. They weren't mine.

The color of the irises was darker, almost black, and the gaze they held was colder, sharper-like a predator sizing up its prey. A chill ran through me when I realized the reflection wasn't mirroring my movements.

When I reached up to touch my face, the figure in the mirror didn't flinch. It cocked its head, staring at me with a sick intensity.

I stepped back, my heart pounding in my ears.

And then it spoke.

"You're not ready."

Its voice was mine, but deeper, rougher, as if it had been dragged across shards of glass.

"What. what are you?" I stuttered, my hand automatically reaching for the holstered gun on my hip.

The reflection sneered-one of those cruel twists to the lips that makes your stomach heave. "A question with many answers, none of which you're prepared to hear."

"Try me," I shot back, forcing steel into my voice despite the tremor in my hands.

The reflection made its way closer to the pane, slow and deliberate. Its face and hands revealed scars that I had never seen, showing jagged lines of battles never fought.

"You think this is real?" it asked, its hand gesturing to the room around me. "This city? This body? It's all a construct, a fragment of something much larger. And you… you're just a thread in a tapestry you can't begin to comprehend."

"I don't understand," I admitted, hating the vulnerability in my voice.

"You will," it said. "When the time comes, you'll understand everything. But for now, all you need to know is this: you are not alone. And you are not safe."

Before I could utter any reply to that, the reflection dissolved into shadows, leaving the mirror empty. My own face stared back at me, pale and shaken.

I turned away, trying to make sense of what had just happened. But before I could dwell on it, the room shifted.

The fire in the hearth dimmed, and the shadows lengthened, stretching across the floor like living things. The air grew heavy, pressing down upon my chest until it was hard to breathe.

And then I saw it.

The threads.

At first, they were faint, invisible, but with every focus, I could see them more clearly. Strings of light, thin as spider silk, crisscrossed the room, connecting everything: the books, the clock, the fire, even the mirror. They pulsed in the same silvery-blue as I had seen in the city, steady, unyielding rhythm.

I reached out cautiously, my finger tips brushing one of the threads. It hummed at my touch, sending surges of energy racing through me that blurred my vision.

In that instant, I saw… something.

Memory-or perhaps a dream. A large, sprawling net of light reached out into space as infinite as it could be, for every thread could connect to numerous others. But at the core of it stood one door, of impossible height with symbols carved over it that slithered into writhes.

I leaned back, panted for short gasps for air.

"What is this?" I whispered; my voice shakes.

The voice from earlier echoed in my mind. "The Door Between Times. Your past. Your future. Your choice."

The weight of those words hung over me as I paced the room, trying to piece together the fragments of what I had seen. The threads, the door, the reflection—what did it all mean?

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

I went cold, my hand going automatically to the gun at my hip.

"Who's there?" I called out, my voice sharper than I'd intended.

No answer.

The knock came again, louder this time.

Taking another deep breath, I went to the door and jerked it open.

No one was there.

But on the floor in front of me was a small package, wrapped in cloth and tied with a thin silver thread.

I picked it up gingerly, my fingers on tender touch as they brushed against the thread. I unwrapped it, and within the folds lay a key, such an unassuming thing that it was made of black metal, just anything, not worth a thought, but in my hand, I felt a strange familiarity.

The key felt warm in my hand, pulsing faintly in time with the threads that still shimmered faintly in the room.

The voice came again, this time softer: "The choice is yours, Kael. Open the door, or stay in the shadows."

I didn't know what door it was talking about, what was on the other side. Yet with the key in my hand, I knew one thing for sure: I could not remain there.

Not under the gaze of the city.

Not harassed by the reflection.

And surely not under the pull of some threads drawing me to a place that I couldn't understand.

I took a step back into the city, clutching the key tightly in my hand, ready to find that door—and the answers waiting on the other side.