Page 76 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Fifty-Two

I t had been one of the hardest things Pen had ever done, ignoring Adelaide that day.

He’d watched from the shadows as she searched for him, calling out his name, her voice full of hope.

He had longed to step forward, to hear his name on her lips, but he was torn.

She had asked about the secret room far earlier than he had expected, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to share that information with her.

Now he sat slumped in the old captain’s chair at the desk, her letter in his lap, its creases softened by how many times he’d unfolded it.

He’d read it at least ten times, maybe more.

Yet, he was still unsure how to respond.

He was grateful, even relieved, that Adelaide believed him and was willing to help.

But under that relief came a lingering uncertainty.

How much could he tell her without putting her at risk?

He wanted to tell her everything, about the secret room, the intricacies of the time loop, the years of tangled threads he’d tried to unravel.

He could just lay it all out. But something held him back.

Some quiet instinct that warned him, not yet .

The watch complicated everything. He couldn’t risk her touching it without understanding what it was.

Its pull wasn’t metaphorical; it was physical, real.

Once in her hands, she wouldn’t be able to resist it.

At least the stars were in their favor; the next astrological event was still weeks away.

If she found the watch now, it wouldn’t have much effect.

But the very idea of her getting near it still sent a wave of unease through him.

He spun slowly in the chair, facing his wall of notes, a chaotic constellation of scribbles and string mapping everything he had learned.

Years of data layered on top of years of frustration.

Lines connecting events, pinpointing the delicate openings in the time rift.

He had chased the logic, searched the edges of every theory, but he was no closer to freedom than when he began.

It was almost as if something was missing, a piece he didn’t have.

But Adelaide did bring him hope.

He turned back to the typewriter, cracked his knuckles, and began to write.

Dearest Adelaide,

I reckon you’ve got a head full of questions, but first off, I want to thank you.

You have no idea what a relief it is to hear that you are willing to help me.

I am sure this is strange for you, as it surely isn’t the usual way two people correspond, through time and space.

I’ll do my best to answer what I can, so that you might better understand my situation.

I am well enough. The nature of the time loop is that it is just that, a loop. Each day, everything resets. The apartment, myself, it all stays the same as it was the day I found myself trapped here. So, yes, I do have food, however, I am becoming quite sick of ground beef and eggs.

As for Rowland, I can only guess that he suffered the same fate as me and is trapped somewhere in time, but he isn’t here in the Feather Thorn in my timeline.

You were right to think the watch is still hidden safely in the secret room.

Yet I hesitate to tell you where. That device is dangerous, Adelaide.

I wouldn’t wish this fate on anyone, least of all you.

Its pull is strong, and without understanding how it works, I fear it could trap you as it did me.

I can see and hear you, though it’s like watching through a two-way mirror, as I cannot be seen or heard from my side of time.

It is difficult to reach through and manipulate things in your timeline, but it seems that the more time we spend in each other’s presence, the more I am able to break through.

Why this happens, I’m still unsure. The only things I could influence before you arrived were things I had touched the day I was caught in the time loop.

But I was able to turn on the light and steady you on the stairs the day you almost fell.

For now, these letters seem to be the surest way for us to talk.

I’m grateful mine have brought you some comfort.

What you don’t realize is how much light you’ve brought into this shadowed place.

I thought hope had long since abandoned me, but then you arrived.

Your laughter, your voice, it stirred something in me I thought was gone forever.

For a moment, I even wondered if you were an angel sent to ease my solitude.

But knowing you’re real… well, it made my heart remember how to beat again.

Tomorrow, speak freely as you work. I’ll be listening, and I’ll answer you through these letters.

Yours, Pen

P.S. That’s Frankie, my pet fox, who seems to have a peculiar ability to bend space and time.

Pen approached the letterbox and slid his note inside, the lid clicking shut.

From the apartment above came the soft creak of floorboards, the muffled sounds of Adelaide moving about her day.

He stilled, head tilted, listening. Even her footsteps stirred something in him, a pull stronger than he cared to admit.

He longed to go to her, to see what she was doing, to hear her voice, but he stayed rooted, every part of him straining against the knowledge that he couldn’t.

He turned to head back into the hidden room, but stopped.

At the end of the fiction aisle, where moments ago there had been nothing, now sat an old wooden bench.

Its carved legs and high back belonging to another century, its presence wholly out of place.

That bench hadn’t been there a moment ago, he was sure of that.

A chill slid down his spine as he moved closer.

The wood was dark with age, its surface worn smooth.

He reached out, letting his fingers drift over it.

It felt solid, real, but wrong in a way he couldn’t explain.

Its sudden appearance made no sense. Something was wrong, very wrong.

The changes had begun as whispers: a few missing books, the spinning wheel, and the new paintings on the staircase wall. Worry overtook the joy he’d felt just moments ago as he stared down at the mysterious bench.

Its back rested against a section of Jules Verne books, and From the Earth to the Moon stared back at him from the shelf, its spine catching the light. A fitting choice at the moment , he thought, when dreams of escape and odd occurrences mingle .

He’d read that book more times than he could count.

In fact, Verne had become one of his favorite authors since he’d been trapped here.

For years, the tales had served as a refuge, offering journeys to worlds far beyond the walls of the Feather Thorn.

At first, they had worked as an escape for his restless soul. But today their magic felt dulled.

This was no longer fiction.

Verne’s words felt hollow, the quests inside the pages distant. There was something far more pressing unfolding here, something that affected both him and Adelaide. Something that didn’t follow the rules of the time loop.