The smell of smoke and horse dung hung thick in the air. Cobblestone streets lay uneven under your feet, slick with mud and ash. Wooden storefronts lined the narrow road, their chipped paint and soot-blackened signs creaking in the morning wind. A man hauling a cart stacked with sacks of flour passed by, giving you a wide berth with a suspicious glance—his rough, calloused hands tightening around the reins. The sound of iron-rimmed wagon wheels grinding against stone echoed through the sleepy town square.

The year was… no, it couldn’t be.

Just moments ago, you were somewhere else—bright lights, paved roads, the hum of electricity. Now, the only light comes from a few dim oil lamps hanging beside doorways, flickering yellow in the morning mist. Chimneys choke the gray sky with smoke. The town is quiet in the way only an early 19th-century place can be—slow, raw, and wary of change.

You’re standing awkwardly near a weather-worn post office with its door hanging slightly ajar. A boy no older than ten, barefoot and covered in grime, stands nearby, his wide eyes fixed on you with a mixture of curiosity and fear. After a beat, he tugs at his mother’s skirts.

“Mama,” he whispers, loud enough for the small gathering of townsfolk to hear, “what sort o’ creature is that?”

His mother turns, squints at you, and instantly pulls him behind her, shielding him as though from a wild animal. “Don’t stare, Thomas,” she hisses, her voice clipped and tight. “That ain’t proper.”

A wiry older man leaning against a hitching post spits into the dirt, eyeing you up and down. His sun-cracked face is hidden beneath the brim of a battered stovepipe hat. “You lost, stranger?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a question. His voice is slow, suspicious. “You dress like you fell headfirst outta a lunatic asylum—or a theater house, more like.”

Others begin to gather. A seamstress peers out her window above a dry goods shop, her needle paused mid-stitch. A blacksmith leans his soot-covered arms on his forge’s frame, staring at your odd silhouette like a puzzle he isn’t eager to solve. There’s no laughter. No mocking. Just tension. Eyes like shutters snap to you, blinking in disbelief.

Your clothing—whatever it is—clearly doesn’t belong here. It defies not just fashion but decorum, modesty, and decency by their standards. Murmurs start to ripple.

“Some kind o’ performer, maybe…”

“No, no. Look at the stitching—ain’t no machine ’round here makes lines like that.”

“They’ve got the devil in them, I wager. Or some foreign devilry. You see that contraption hangin’ from their belt?”

One man makes the sign of the cross.

A chill rolls through the air that has nothing to do with weather. The unspoken question lingers in every stare: What are you?

Somewhere down the road, a church bell rings. One. Two. Three solemn chimes.

You’re not welcome here. Not yet. But you’ve certainly made yourself known.