Tied by Fate Bound by Time

Rain had a way of turning Willow Creek into a memory.

It slipped through the cracks of the day—quiet, unrelenting, like it was trying to say something no one was listening hard enough to hear.

Luna Carter watched it fall from the window above her desk, where the red box still sat—untouched, closed, like it was waiting.

She hadn't dared open it again.

Not after the whisper in the church.

Not after the voice that wasn't hers.

But sleep never came. Her mind moved in endless spirals—the ring, the scroll, the voice that felt like it remembered her.

Every time she closed her eyes, fire bloomed behind them.

Every time she blinked, she saw him.

The man with the grey eyes.

She didn't know his name.

But her bones did.

And she was tired of not knowing.

---

City Hall's archives were buried deep underground—two floors below the main office, past the boiler room and a flickering EXIT sign that buzzed like it had secrets.

The door creaked like it hadn't been opened in years.

Inside, the air was colder. Still.

Luna hugged her coat tighter as she stepped between rows of dusty shelves and rusted cabinets, their labels faded and curling.

It smelled like mildew, old paper, and the kind of silence that settles in when even ghosts forget how to speak.

Her footsteps echoed.

Or maybe… someone else's did.

She'd spent nearly two hours combing through records—land deeds, building permits, forgotten council disputes. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for anymore.

But then, wedged between two irrelevant files from the early 1900s, she found it.

> Restricted — Property Dispute (Closed)

Date: 1893

Involved Parties: Alder Parish vs. G. Grayson

She stared.

Grayson.

Everyone in Willow Creek knew the name. Old money. Old power.

Grayson Law. Grayson Park. Even the library bore their legacy.

But what did they have to do with Saint Alder's?

She opened the file—

And froze.

Footsteps.

Not hers.

Slow. Measured. Deliberate.

She looked up, heart hammering.

He was already there.

Tall. Sharply cut in a black coat, rain still clinging to his shoulders like it hadn't dared seep through. And his eyes—grey, clear, unnervingly calm—locked onto hers with the kind of familiarity that felt like déjà vu wrapped in danger.

The world narrowed.

She had never seen him before.

And somehow, she always had.

Not here. Not now.

But in fire.

And in ruin.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice smooth and controlled, like marble warmed by shadow.

It wasn't the question that shook her.

It was the way he looked at her—not like a stranger.

Like a memory trying to reassemble itself.

"I… I'm an intern," she said quickly, too small. "Luna Carter."

He didn't blink.

"You're not supposed to be down here."

"I was assigned the Saint Alder's clearance," she said, straightening. "I'm following up."

His gaze dropped to the folder in her hands. "And what did you find?"

The question didn't sound casual.

It felt like a blade wrapped in velvet.

She squared her shoulders. "Why do you care?"

A pause.

Then: "Because whatever you woke up… didn't stay in that church."

Her breath caught.

It was him.

The man from the fire.

She didn't know how she knew. She just did.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He reached into his coat and withdrew a slim badge.

> Asher Grayson

Deputy Commissioner, Willow Creek

Her pulse stuttered.

The name hit harder than it should've.

Same as the scroll. Same as the file.

This wasn't coincidence.

It was something older.

"Is this some kind of test?" she asked, voice barely steady.

"No," he said. "It's not."

Her throat tightened. "How do you know what I found in that church?"

He studied her for a long moment.

"Did you hear it too?"

She went still.

"The voice?" she whispered.

His silence was answer enough.

"You weren't supposed to hear it," he said quietly, almost like a confession.

"Excuse me?"

"That place was sealed for a reason. Something was buried there. And now…"

He met her eyes.

"It's not."

His tone wasn't angry.

It was tired. Sad.

"You opened it, didn't you?" he asked, voice gentling.

Her hands tightened around the folder.

"I didn't know what it was," she whispered. "The scroll… it said my name."

Something flickered in his expression—pain.

Old pain. Worn smooth with time.

"Then it's already started."

"What has?"

He looked at her like he wanted to lie—but couldn't.

"You shouldn't have gone there."

"I didn't mean to—"

"You weren't assigned," he interrupted, stepping closer. "You were drawn."

The words struck something deep and buried inside her.

She swallowed. "Why do I feel like I've met you before?"

He didn't look away.

"Because you have."

Her knees went weak.

"This is insane," she murmured. "I don't believe in fate, or ghosts, or cursed rings or—"

"You don't have to believe," he said. "It's already happening."

He turned, walking deeper into the archives like he knew every step.

Luna followed—not because she trusted him, but because part of her already did.

"You said it's started," she called softly. "Started what?"

He didn't stop.

"You saw the fire, didn't you?"

She froze.

He glanced back.

"So did I," he said. "Every year since I turned seventeen."

Her voice cracked. "What is this?"

"I don't know," he said. "Only that it's older than this city. Older than me. Older than you."

He paused. Then added, even softer:

"And it always begins the same way:

With fire.

A ring.

And a girl named Luna."

She couldn't breathe.

He stepped toward her again, quiet and careful.

She sat on the edge of a desk, her legs trembling.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Neither do I."

"Why me?"

"I wish I knew."

Thunder rumbled overhead—low and close, like the sky itself was listening.

"I should go," she whispered. "I need… air. Something."

"You need to be careful."

She turned toward the door.

He watched her like someone seeing a ghost.

"I don't know what's waking up," he said. "But if the pattern repeats…"

He stopped himself.

"If it repeats, what?"

He hesitated.

"One of us doesn't make it."

The words fell like a stone between them.

She stared at him.

Lightning split the sky above.

"I don't believe in patterns," she said.

Asher's lips curved into the barest, broken smile.

"Neither did I."

Then, softer—like he didn't mean for her to hear:

"But I believe in you."

They stood in silence, something ancient weaving between their shadows.

And miles away, in a quiet apartment above a record shop—

the red ring began to glow.

Again.

---

End of Chapter