The next few days brought a strange calm to the village. The rebels had moved farther south, and Nathan’s men repaired what they could. The smell of smoke still hung in the air, but for the first time, the silence was not made of fear. Emily spent her mornings checking the wounded and her evenings reading from the old journal. Each page hinted at something that defied reason. Drawings of circles, lines of symbols, and the same phrase repeated in different handwriting—The healer’s heart opens the gate.

She wanted to ask Nathan about it, but he was always busy with reports and patrols. He looked stronger each day, though the bandage on his shoulder was still fresh. Sometimes she caught him watching her with quiet curiosity, like he was trying to solve a puzzle he couldn’t name.

One night, as she finished her rounds, Nathan approached her near the fire. “You’ve been reading my father’s notes,” he said.

She nodded slowly. “They’re… strange. Were they experiments?”

“He believed time wasn’t a straight line,” Nathan said. “He thought certain objects could connect different points in history. Most people called him mad.”

Emily felt her heart race. “Objects like what?”

“Keys, watches, pieces of metal forged under special conditions. He said if the heart of the user carried the right intention, the object could open a door between worlds.”

She swallowed hard. “A door between worlds?”

Nathan nodded. “He said the universe remembers those who try to heal it.”

The words made her chest tighten. She looked at the brass key under her shirt. “Did he ever make one of those objects?”

“I don’t know. The war started before he could finish his work. He died in a field hospital. I never saw the tools he left behind.”

Emily hesitated. “Your father’s name—Dr. N. Cole. That’s the name carved on the box I found.”

Nathan’s eyes widened. “What box?”

She told him everything—about the antique market, the light, waking up here. When she finished, the fire between them burned low, leaving only embers.

Nathan rubbed his temples. “So you’re saying that box was my father’s, and it sent you through time.”

“I don’t know how else to explain it,” she said softly.

He didn’t laugh or doubt her. He just stared into the fire. “Then maybe he was right. Maybe time really can bend.”

They sat in silence. The night was calm, but Emily’s thoughts were a storm. If the key brought her here, maybe it could take her back. Yet when she thought of leaving, she felt an ache in her chest she didn’t want to name.

Before going to sleep, she opened the journal again. A new page shimmered faintly under the lamplight. Words appeared where there had been none: “To heal the wound of time, one must risk breaking it.”

Emily whispered, “What are you trying to tell me?” But the page stayed silent.