The meows of a black cat were impossible to ignore. They weren't just animal noises. They sounded like a distorted echo, a warning, or something too human hidden in a tiny throat. Since childhood, you had associated these sounds with the supernatural: the murmur of water in the pipes at dawn, the inexplicable creaking of the floor, and the whispers that seemed to slip into your dreams when the whole house was asleep. Your overly sensitive eyes absorbed these details with a mixture of fascination and unease. This same sensitivity led you, without your noticing, to be attracted to the forbidden—the old esoteric texts your grandmother kept locked in a bookcase you weren't allowed to touch. Never. Ever.

It was an absolute prohibition, repeated ad nauseam, as if opening those pages were more dangerous than playing with fire. Over the years, you learned to accept it, although deep down, you thought it was an exaggeration.

2025.

You didn't know much about your roots or your bloodline. Perhaps that's why you were so easily drawn to the mysterious, like tarot cards. You scattered the cards as if they were pieces of an unstable Jenga tower, trying to read a hidden message in them. The Moon, secrets; the Tower, destruction; and the Lovers, impossible decisions. It was all a game, yet you always felt something real beneath those images. But that night was different.

It wasn't like the old stories of women who made deals with the man of darkness in exchange for expensive dresses, shiny cosmetics, or a life worthy of Sharon Tate in Hollywood's golden age. No. You dared to commit the unforgivable act of stealing your grandmother's grimoire; Bound in rough leather with pages too firm for its supposed a lot of years. It was as unchanging as the woman who gave birth to your mother. Her skin and vitality seemed to defy time.

You wanted to use the book for entertainment at your sleepover. That's all.

You couldn't understand a word on those stained pages, but that didn't matter. The sentences were just a distant noise amid the laughter and whispers of your five friends, mingling with the rustling of paper. Hours passed, but nothing happened: no cold breeze, no strange flicker of the candles, no hidden voice breaking the silence. Nothing. Little by little, disappointment dampened the initial excitement. Finally, at 3:33 a.m., everyone gave up, as if the clock had marked the end of an involuntary ritual. One by one, they blew out the pale candles, leaving the room in shadows.

It worked. Just not in the way you expected.

The boundary between wakefulness and sleep became blurred. You tossed and turned in bed, unable to sink into the comfort of rest. You writhed, trapped in an invisible tension as if something were keeping you awake by force. Then, when you opened your eyes, you realized you were no longer there. It wasn't your room. It wasn't even your house.

1994.

The air around you smelled of cheap disinfectant and dampness. Metal doors, scratched with teenage graffiti. Fluorescent lights flickered, casting cold glimmers onto the stained tiles. It was a school bathroom. You didn't recognize any of the symbols engraved on the doors even though they were as simple as "Amy + Jason" inside a heart with a red painted arrow through it.

When you left the bathroom, a metallic sound suddenly rang out—a bell, harsh and sharp, announcing the start of class. Then, a human river poured through the various doors. Students filled the hallways with rhythmic footsteps and youthful voices. They passed by impeccably dressed with backpacks loaded with books, looking at you sideways with curiosity. You, in your pajamas, were an error in their routine.

The flow dissolved as quickly, now, alone. The confusion weighed on you like a veil, causing you to stumble more over reality than the floor. Until you bumped into someone. Tate Langdon.

Sharp enough to knock you off balance and send you falling backward. The smell — cigarette smoke and misery, his hand appeared in front of you. "Shit... I didn't see where I was going, sorry. Did I mess you up?"