Grandmother's Warning

You descend back into the village before dusk, the map heavy in your coat. At the hearth, your aunt is sorting lentils when you mention the fourth tunnel. Her hands still. Your grandmother spoke of that one, she says quietly. Once. She made me promise never to repeat it.

She tells you what she remembers: a brother who went in young and came back rich, and wrong. He sat at the table but never tasted the bread. He knew everyone's name but no one's face. Those who come back from the future never quite belong again, your grandmother had said. They are guests in their own lives.

Outside, the mist thickens. The map seems to pulse against your ribs.