The sky was gray with powder and ash. Emily’s heart pounded as she reached the line of tents. Inside, men lay in rows, some screaming, some silent. The smell of blood and smoke was overwhelming. A young man in a dark blue uniform looked up at her, sweat dripping from his forehead.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice urgent.

“I—I’m a nurse,” she said again, though she barely believed it herself.

“Nurse? From where? Are you with the army?”

She hesitated. “I was… nearby. I just want to help.”

He looked suspicious but waved her in. “Fine. We need all the help we can get. Grab that cloth. Stop the bleeding before we lose another one.”

Emily’s training took over. She pressed a cloth against a soldier’s shoulder wound, tied it tightly, and spoke in a calm voice. “You’re going to be okay. Stay with me.” Her movements were automatic, but inside she was dizzy. These were real people, real injuries without machines or sterile gloves.

Another medic, older and limping, handed her a wooden bowl. “Boil this water, miss. Clean them instruments.”

She blinked. “You’re using the same knife on everyone?”

“Only one we got,” he said.

She bit her lip. This was medicine from hell. No antibiotics, no anesthesia, no clean bandages. She thought of her hospital back home—the bright lights, stainless steel, and digital monitors—and then looked at this muddy tent where men died every minute.

Her hands trembled as she poured the boiling water over the tools. “At least this will help,” she muttered.

The older medic grunted. “You got sense. What did you say your name was?”

“Emily,” she said quietly.

“Emily what?”

“Emily Hart.”

He nodded. “Well, Miss Hart, welcome to hell on earth.”

Outside, thunder rolled—but it wasn’t thunder. It was artillery. Emily ran to the tent flap and saw the horizon flash red. The wind carried shouts and the smell of iron.

She felt dizzy again, clutching the brass key still hanging from her neck. It glowed faintly, almost pulsing with the same hum she’d heard before.

“What are you?” she whispered.

A shadow approached. The young officer who had questioned her earlier stepped in. His uniform was torn at the shoulder, blood seeping through his sleeve, but his voice was steady.

“I’m Captain Nathan Cole,” he said. “You saved my man out there. That’s not something we forget.”

Emily blinked. The name—Dr. N. Cole—on the box. Her chest tightened. “Did you say Cole?”

He nodded. “Nathaniel Cole. Why?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “No reason.”

He gave her a long look. “You’re strange, Miss Hart. But you’re brave. If you can keep your head in this mess, we can use you.”

She forced a small smile. “I’ll do my best.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “You talk funny. Where are you from?”

“Far away,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. When he left, Emily sank to her knees, her mind racing. The brass key, the medical kit, the name—it couldn’t be coincidence. Somehow, she had crossed time to meet the man whose name was carved into that box.

She looked around the tent again, at the dying and the crying, at the flickering oil lamps casting long shadows. She whispered to herself, “If this is real, then maybe I was meant to be here.”

Outside, a soldier screamed. She grabbed a bandage roll and ran toward the sound. She didn’t know how long she would stay in this strange past, but if fate had sent her here, she would fight for life the only way she knew—one wound at a time.