"I'm not supposed to be here," Emma said, ripping the locket free from her collar and dumping it on the coffee table. The antique chain scraped the wood as she pulled. She stared at the tiny engraving and felt the villa's air press against her like a closing door. "If this is a dream—prove it," she told the empty room. Her hand shook. She set the locket on the table, pulled a pocketknife from the drawer, and sliced the pad of her fingertip cleanly. "Stupid," she muttered, and cupped the wound. A single bead of blood trembled on her skin. She whispered, "Open," and let the drop fall straight onto the metal. The locket made a soft click, then a sound like a drawer sliding open in a dead building. A seam flashed between the two halves and a cool, dry air escaped like someone had opened a cellar hatch. "Okay." She didn't let herself breathe. She touched the rim. It felt ordinary, then unreal—an edge between now and a place that didn't take time. A narrow mouth opened into darkness. A rack of pale light lay beyond, like the inside of a warehouse lit by frozen dawn. She could see shelving as far as her eyes reached, impossible rows without dust, boxes labeled with her handwriting and labels she hadn't written yet. "This is ridiculous," she said. "Show me one thing I put in there before." Her voice stayed steady. She grabbed