The path that curved north was empty, its stones old and rough, worn by hundreds of years of feet and horse feet. Clara pulled her shawl tighter against the cold. The woods pushed close from both sides, dark shapes falling across the path as the sun started to go down. She felt the weight of the diary in her bag—a steady sign of the questions inside it without answers.
Her thoughts went to Thomas. Every page she read brought him nearer, and yet also farther—like a ghost she could almost reach but never hold. Was he looking for her too, across the years?
The sharp sound of horse feet on stone pulled her back. Clara stopped still. A single rider showed at the turn of the path, his shape half a dark shape in the failing light. His cloak was long, the color of night, and the hood hid most of his face. The horse under him was big and jumpy, its breath making steam in the cool air.
"Evening," the stranger said, his voice low, deep. It held a strange peace that made Clara's heart beat faster, not slower.
"Evening," she answered, trying to sound calm. "Do you ride this way much?"
"Not much." He led the horse nearer, then got down with smooth ease. He was tall, thin, with eyes that seemed both too old and too young at the same time. "The path does not pardon those who walk it alone."
Clara's pulse sped up. There was something strange about him, as if he carried the weight of time itself. She saw the chain around his neck—a hanging piece shaped like an hourglass.
She swallowed. "Who are you?"
The stranger's mouth turned a little, though it wasn't a smile. "A keeper, maybe. Or a sign. Names are less important than picks." His look stayed on her bag. "You carry something that does not belong fully to this world."
Clara held the bag tight without thinking. "How do you know that?"
He stepped closer, and though his boots hit the ground, she heard almost nothing—as if the world bent to let him walk. "Because I, too, have walked where time does not flow as it should."
Her breath caught. "Then… you know of Thomas?"
The stranger turned his head. For the shortest moment, she thought she saw deep sadness in his eyes, old as the earth. "I know of many who are lost. Some find their way back. Others… become lost forever."
Before Clara could answer, the wind got stronger, bringing with it the weak sound of a bell ringing from no village she knew. The stranger got back on his horse.
"Wait!" she called. "Tell me—am I in trouble?"
He looked at her one more time, the dying light making half his face dark. "Yes," he said softly. "But trouble is the path of love. Remember this, Clara: every strong promise bends time, but not every strong promise lasts through it."
And with that, he pushed his horse forward. In seconds, the woods took him whole.
Clara stood alone again where the paths crossed, her breath shaky. The diary felt heavier than ever. Whoever that man was, he had not come by accident.
And she knew—her story with Thomas was only just starting.