Chapter 14 – Threads Through Time
The South smelled like dust and memory.
Damon's boots sank into the dry Texas soil as he stepped off the train in San Antonio, a city simmering with heat and tension. He'd traded the rolling hills of Virginia for this rough, sun-beaten land because of a single name spoken in a dream—Jasper Whitlock.
Bella's voice lingered in his mind like the whisper of a breeze that refused to fade. "If he's there—if he's real in your world—then it's not worlds that separate us. Just time."
That idea had haunted him. It made his chest tight with something he didn't want to name—hope, maybe. So here he was, chasing ghosts across battle lines.
The streets bustled with uniformed men and anxious glances. Tensions were thick as molasses, and whispers of the vampire wars were buried beneath mortal skirmishes. He needed answers, and he needed them fast.
Damon had heard of a witch who kept to the outskirts of the city. They said she could speak through time, read threads of fate like others read tea leaves. He wasn't one for hocus pocus, but Bella's dreams weren't normal. And neither was she.
The witch's cabin sat beneath a canopy of crooked trees, half-swallowed by kudzu and shadow. Damon approached cautiously, hands out, heart steady.
"If you're here to curse me, sugar, take a number," a voice drawled from within.
He smirked. "Actually, I was hoping you'd tell me whether I'm chasing a girl who hasn't been born yet."
That earned him a pause.
The woman emerged from the shadows—barefoot, dark-skinned, eyes glowing like amber in firelight. Her hair was wrapped in a thick scarf, and she held a deck of worn cards in one hand.
"Well damn," she murmured. "You're the one she dreams of, aren't you?"
Damon's brow arched. "She?"
"The girl threading through time. You're not the first to feel it. And you won't be the last. But you're lucky, Mr. Salvatore—you're anchored in her story."
He stepped closer. "Can you prove that?"
She held out a palm. "Give me something you hold dear. Something older than your regrets."
Without hesitation, Damon pulled the silver Confederate button from his pocket—the same one he'd shown Bella in their last dream. The witch closed her fingers around it, whispered something in a language he didn't know, and dropped it into a bowl of salt and herbs.
The room shimmered.
Flashes of Bella filled the space—not just the dream-version of her, but moments he hadn't seen. Her in a blanket burrito, laughing at a man in flannel. Her sketching alone in bed. Her whispering his name in sleep.
Damon froze.
"She's real," he whispered.
The witch nodded. "More than that. She's a thread-walker. And you, my dear, are her echo."
"That doesn't explain how I find her. Or when."
"You don't. She finds you, every time. But you can leave a mark. Something she can carry across the divide."
Damon stepped forward. "How?"
The witch turned, rifling through a small velvet pouch. From it, she drew a ring—silver, etched with symbols that shimmered in the low light. "Spell-locked. Tied to your heartbeat. It'll appear to her when she needs a reminder. When the thread frays too thin."
He took the ring, rolling it between his fingers.
"You'll only get one chance to send it," the witch warned. "So you better mean it." Damon turned the ring over in his fingers, recognizing the faint shimmer in its stone. "It's lapis," he murmured. The witch arched a brow. "You've seen it before?" Damon nodded slowly. "Emily Bennett gave me a ring like this once. The day I woke up as a vampire, she handed it to me and said, "Give this to her. She'll need it." I didn't ask questions. I just did it. I passed it to a girl who haunted me from her dreams without thinking twice. Neither of us knew what it was for." Damon stared at the new ring, turning it slowly. "Now I want to know if this ring is the same... or something different."
The witch's expression softened with recognition. "Ah... then she already touched your fate. That was Emily Bennett's work. She was powerful in ways most couldn't grasp. If she gave you a ring to pass on, then that was no trinket."
Damon watched her closely. "So it is the same?"
"Not quite," the witch said, holding up the one she'd given him. "Emily's was made for a bond—tied to her magic, meant to endure through the veil of death and time. A thread anchor, if you will. This one is a beacon. It listens. It calls. It won't just follow her… it will remind her. She's not alone, no matter where or when she is."
Damon swallowed hard. "So this one… she'll feel it?"
"Yes. When she needs it most, it will hum against her skin. Your presence, your promise. This isn't just magic, Mr. Salvatore—it's intention sealed in silver."
He closed his fist around the ring again, more carefully this time. A different kind of weight settled there—hope."
That night, Damon sat beneath a crooked tree on the edge of a plantation long since abandoned. War echoed in the distance—cannons, shouting, death. He ignored it.
He closed his eyes and thought of His ghost girl.
He pictured her sitting across from him, her sketchbook in her lap, her hair falling in soft waves across her shoulder. The way she tilted her head when she was about to say something sarcastic. The softness that crept into her voice when she told him You're not alone.
He held the ring in his palm, then pressed it to his chest.
"Find her," he whispered, and let it go.
The air shifted.
Somewhere, miles and maybe centuries away, the ring began its slow journey across the threads.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Two Days Later
Tracking Jasper Whitlock wasn't easy. The vampire left chaos in his wake—battles with no survivors, skirmishes that vanished from memory. Damon used old contacts, charmed bartenders, and even bribed a Confederate officer to get his hands on the latest movement reports.
When he finally found the remnants of a battlefield outside Galveston, the ground reeked of blood and sulfur. Crows circled above, restless.
He spotted her first.
A girl with wild eyes and a grin too sharp for her face. Red stains marked her cheeks like war paint. She was tearing through corpses like she was looking for dessert.
Behind her stood a figure tall and eerily still. Blonde. Young-looking, but battle-worn. His eyes glowed red.
Damon approached slowly, keeping his hands visible.
"You Whitlock?"
The vampire turned.
His gaze met Damon's, and something stirred behind it.
"Who's asking?"
"Someone chasing a thread through time."
Whitlock didn't smile. But he didn't attack, either.
"That's not the weirdest thing I've heard this week," he drawled.
They sat in silence inside the ruined church on the edge of town. Damon sipped from a flask. Whitlock didn't blink.
"You ever meet a girl in dreams?" Damon asked finally. "One who doesn't belong to this time?"
Jasper leaned back. Damon didn't wait for an answer.
"Because mine keeps coming back. And I need to know if she's real."
Jasper's eyes narrowed slightly. "Coming back how?"
"Dreams. Conversations. Same girl. Every time. And she sent me here—to find you. To confirm something."
"What exactly did she want you to confirm?"
Damon hesitated, then said, "That it's not worlds that separate us. Just time."
Jasper stilled. He didn't breathe. Didn't blink.
"You're saying she's from the future."
"Yeah. And she thought you might be the thread between us—someone who exists in both our times. She hoped you might exist… to prove she's real."
Jasper exhaled slowly. "I don't sleep. So I've never seen her. Never heard of her. But… I've felt things. Strange pulls in time. Like pieces of a life I haven't lived yet brushing past me. Echo's of emotions I have yet to feel and have long forgotten."
Damon stepped forward. "She's never been seen by anyone but me. That's why I came. I had to know if someone like her existed in your world too. If you're here, then maybe she's not a ghost. She's Just waiting. Time I can wait through. Worlds I'm not so sure. So I came. To find a thread I could hold onto. To make sure she's real. You're the only one she thought might exist in both times—mine and hers. A link.""
Jasper looked away, toward the shattered windows of the ruined church. "If she's reaching across time… then you're part of something rare. You'll want to hold on to that."
Damon gave a single, tight nod. "I plan to."
Jasper's expression shifted. Something like curiosity, maybe even pity, passed over it. "You're braver than most. Or more desperate."
Damon smirked faintly. "Little of both."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Finally, Damon stood. "Thanks."
That night, Damon didn't dream.
But he didn't need to. He felt Bella's presence like a heartbeat stitched into the shadows of his mind.
And across time, in a small room in Forks, Washington, a silver ring shimmered to life on Bella's nightstand.
Waiting.