A Familiar Stranger

The stranger steps closer, and your breath catches. Her face is weathered, older than yours by decades, but the eyes — your eyes — are unmistakable. Pale gray, flecked with the same restless gold.

"I had one sentence to give you," she says, voice trembling like she's rehearsed it for years. "Do not take the fourth tunnel."

You open your mouth to ask why, but she shakes her head. "That's all they let me carry back. I'm your granddaughter, Wren. Or I will be. I came a long way through a narrow door to tell you this."

The mist curls between you. Somewhere behind her, the past Barylon rings its evening bell — a sound you've only ever heard in your grandmother's stories. A warning from your own blood. And yet: if you obey her, how is she standing here at all?