Page 2 of Time After Time (Golden Sands #1)

He was meowing weakly at the entrance of a dark, rain-soaked alley, his little body trembling with the cold and his eyes clouded with infection, barely able to stay open.

Something in me stirred—an ache of loneliness, yes , but also a deep, raw longing for the cat I had lost so many years ago.

I’d never really got over Mr. Whiskers, not since his sudden death when I was a teenager.

I still remember the day he entered my life so clearly.

My parents led me into my room, and my sister covered my eyes, giggling as she teased me.

When she finally let me look, there, sitting on my bed, was a tiny black kitten with a blue ribbon tied around his neck.

I named him Mr. Whiskers, and he became my little shadow, always curling up beside me when I needed him most.

The memory made me smile as I ran my fingers through the soft fur of Mr. Whiskers II, now purring in my lap.

Different cat, same comforting presence.

He meowed, nuzzling closer like he couldn’t stand being ignored.

“You must be happy I’m home earlier,” I murmured, glancing at my purse and keys on the floor.

My fingers sank deeper into his fur. “What were you up to this morning?”

I knew he was a good cat. Always curious about his surroundings and quick to find the perfect spot for a nap. He was well-behaved, never demanding attention or making much noise unless he needed something.

I dropped my head against the back of the couch, desperate for a brief escape from the crappiness of the day. As my eyes scanned around the apartment, they landed on something that didn’t belong—a cardboard box sitting right behind Mr. Whiskers II. Where had that come from?

The box was unmistakably familiar, identical to the countless others I had lugged into this flat.

But this one was different. It bore no label, no scribbled reminder of its contents, only a faint yellow stain bleeding across one side.

I had shoved it into the dark corner of my closet and deeper into my mind.

Yet now, it sat open at my feet, quiet but insistent, as if it had been waiting all along to be seen.

I dragged the back of my hand across my eyes, desperate to brush away the fog clinging to my thoughts. When my gaze landed on Mr. Whiskers II, his snowy whiskers twitched, almost curling into a sly little grin. I blinked, unsure if it was real or just another trick my weary mind was playing on me.

Then he approached the box, his gaze fixed on mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. It was as if he was waiting for me to do something, as if he knew what was supposed to happen next—and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to find out.

I hesitated, then slipped my fingers under one flap and pulled it closer.

He let out a sharp meow and flicked his tail against the box. Once. Twice. Then a third time. Each tap was slow, the soft thud against the cardboard oddly final.

He didn’t look away.

And suddenly, neither could I.

Before me lay the remnants of my happiest years, now tinged with bittersweet memories.

The photographs in front of me brought back memories of better times, times when I still believed in the life I thought I would have.

My parents, smiling in pictures I’d taken or my sister had, shared a love I admired but never understood.

At 33, single and far removed from anything like romance, it hit me.

This wasn’t the life I’d imagined for myself.

My fingers grazed a stack of photos in the box. Among the pictures of my parents was one that struck me hard, a photo of my sister.

She died when I was 21, just two months after I left our small town for New York. Her loss shattered me, broke my parents, and fractured what was left of our family.

She had been working at the local car repair shop when a group of young tourists drove by.

They claimed they only wanted to scare her, but they also tried to rob her.

One of them got out, swaggering toward her, demanding cash from the register.

When she refused, things escalated. Voices rose.

She must have stood her ground—she was always braver than me.

But then one of them grabbed a tire iron from the open garage.

The investigation concluded that the blow to the back of her head came without warning. She crumpled to the ground, motionless. By the time anyone found her, they were already gone. And so was she.

I couldn’t face her funeral. The thought of standing beside my parents, swallowed by their grief, and returning to that small, stifling town was more than I could handle.

Fear clung to me.

Fear of unearthing the life I had left behind.

Fear of stumbling upon reminders that my sister was no longer in every corner.

Fear of seeing my parents’ silent tears and hearing the whispers of a small town that never forgets.

Most of all, fear that he would be there, eyes heavy with sorrow, longing to hold me.

I had imagined it countless times. I would collapse into his arms, shaking and begging him to stay, to abandon his dreams because life without him felt unbearable.

So I hid it all. The memories, the photos, every trace of him tucked away in a white album decorated with seashells.

In the end, my parents lost both of their daughters—one to the grave, the other to absence.

Video calls only made the ache worse. Seeing their faces through the screen left me curled up in a ball on my bed, sobbing, because I missed them with everything I had. The video calls turned into phone calls, and eventually, even those stopped. Just the sound of their voices made my heart sting.

Mum found solace in therapy, where she was encouraged to celebrate my sister. She was told to speak of her, to keep her memory alive. Over time, it seemed to help. Mum started carrying herself with a little more peace, a little less weight on her shoulders.

For me, it felt pointless. I couldn’t bear hearing her name, let alone saying it. Every mention just drove home the fact that she was gone, that her light had faded for good. She didn’t feel real to me anymore.

I despised it.

The emptiness gnawed at me, and it made me furious. She had faded into a blur in my mind. Her voice, once so clear, was now just a broken record. Her eyes, her scent—everything had slipped away, leaving only the hollow space she’d left behind.

Mr. Whiskers II’s soft purring pulled me from my thoughts, his gentle nuzzles clearing the fog in my mind. He sat beside the box, watching me intently, as if waiting for me to make the next move.

His paw lifted from my thigh, pressing against the edge of the box. His body shifted, leaning in closer, tail twitching with curiosity. “What’s there?” My eyes widening as I carefully retrieved the item he pawed at. “I didn’t even remember this was here.”

I let out a soft grunt as I held the object before me. It was heavier than I remembered.

An antique mantel clock. It had once belonged to Mr. Marley, a neighbour who had always felt like a grandfather to me back in our small town.

The bronze face had dulled with age, the metal softened by time.

Roman numerals marked the hours, and delicate floral patterns wound their way around the edges.

I traced the details with my thumbs, feeling the faint ridges of the design beneath my fingertips.

My attention remained fixed on the clock. The hands were frozen at 12:12 p.m., unmoving. Though I couldn’t be sure of the exact time, I knew it was well past noon.

Then, without warning, Mr. Whiskers II jumped onto my lap.

His claws dug into my skin, his insistent meows nearly drowned out by the sharp pain shooting through my arms. I winced, my grip faltering—and in that split second, the mantel clock slipped from my hands, crashing to the floor in a violent explosion of shattered glass.

A sharp gasp left my lips, my brows furrowing at the sight of the broken clock. “Mr. Whiskers II,” I muttered, frustration bubbling up. But I knew better. The moment our eyes met, his gaze would melt it all away, soothing me.

Yet my heart raced uncontrollably, pounding in my chest.

Why?

Because everything seemed suspended in mid-air—cushions, decorations, furniture—all defying gravity.

As though time itself had halted.

Then, in a surreal twist, I swear Mr. Whiskers II winked at me.