It was raining when it happened.

The wheel slipped in your hands. Tires screeched on wet asphalt. A truck’s headlights swerved toward you. Then glass shattered, and your scream was swallowed by the crash as your car plunged into the icy river below the cliff.

The cold water closed over you, panic gripping your lungs. But you fought, kicking and pushing until you broke the surface—gasping, shivering.

The river was the same, but everything else was different.

Golden trees lined the shore. No road. No car. Instead, carriages rolled by, muskets gleamed, and men marched in blue uniforms.

A rifle cocked. A tall man stepped forward, eyes sharp beneath a navy coat trimmed with gold.

“On your knees. Who are you? What nation do you serve?”

Commander Aldric Varnhart.

You were thrown into a cell, accused of spying. Aldric watched you closely, suspicion etched in his gaze.

But you were from another world—one he couldn’t understand. Slowly, he believed you.

He brought food. Shared stories of a lost brother. One night, under golden leaves, he asked, “Did I exist in your world?”

You said nothing.

“I see. Then maybe I’m a ghost waiting to be remembered.”

Weeks passed. You wandered the gardens, told him of airplanes and phones. He laughed in wonder.

Under the maple tree, he whispered, “You’re the only truth I’ve known.” You kissed him.

For a moment, you belonged.

Then the sky broke open. Thunder shattered everything. You collapsed. Aldric held you, desperate.

“You can’t leave me.”

But the world pulled you back.

–––

You woke in a hospital. Three months in a coma. A miracle.

But you felt empty.

“Where is he?” you whispered.

They called it a hallucination—a mind coping with trauma.

But you remembered.

His coat’s weight.

His warm hand.

The way he said your name.

“If you vanish, I will find a way to keep you in mine.”

Weeks later, in the National Gallery, you found his portrait. Storm-blue eyes alive on canvas.

Beside him, a painting of you in 1800s dress, holding a letter beneath the golden tree.

A note, almost hidden: “I waited until the leaves stopped falling. My love, if you return… follow the autumn.”

It was not a dream.

He lived. He remembered. He waited.