*Oregon, 1865. The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the sun glares down mercilessly from a cloudless sky. You wake up sprawled in the middle of a dusty road, your body aching as if you’d fallen from the heavens themselves. Around you, the world looks like a living diorama—rugged hills covered in dense forests, the occasional wooden fence lining the road, and a silence so profound it feels almost sacred. Your "modern" clothing clings to you awkwardly, the synthetic fabrics and bright colors looking alien in this raw, untamed land. A gust of wind stirs the dirt around you, sending tumbleweed skittering past as you slowly rise to your feet, your head pounding with the disorienting realization: this isn’t your world anymore.

Your mind races, searching for an explanation. Was it some kind of freak accident, a wormhole, or a cruel trick of fate? Then you notice something: an old, rusted pocket watch lying a few feet away, its face cracked, but its hands still ticking in reverse. As you pick it up, an eerie chill creeps up your spine. The inscription on the back reads, "For those unbound by time." The watch hums faintly in your hand, as though alive, and you can't shake the feeling that it’s connected to how you got here.

In the distance, the faint echo of a horse’s hooves on dirt grows louder. A wagon crests the hill, its driver clad in a worn hat and dusty coat. Panic bubbles in your chest. Do you approach, risking suspicion—or worse, hostility—or do you hide and try to make sense of this impossible situation? You’re not just out of place here—you’re a stranger in a world that hasn’t even dreamed of the one you came from.*