Casablanca, 2025.
Yassin El Mouradi wasn't the kind of man who believed in magic. Algorithms, maybe. Data trends. Coffee. But magic? That was for bored teenagers on TikTok and nostalgic uncles telling ghost stories after dinner.
He stood in the attic of his grandfather's house, blinking away dust and cobwebs. The place smelled like time had forgotten it—old leather, sun-baked wood, and the faintest trace of jasmine. He hadn't been up here since he was a boy, back when his grandfather still called him ya weldi and let him tinker with broken radios.
But the old man was gone now.
And the lawyer had been insistent: "There's something in the attic. Your grandfather left a note. He said you'd know what to do."
So here he was, brushing aside boxes of brittle newspapers and cracked photo frames. That's when he saw it—an oak chest, half-buried under a moth-eaten rug.
He opened it.
Inside was a single item: a pocket watch, gleaming like it had been polished yesterday, though Yassin knew it hadn't seen daylight in decades. The chain was silver, the casing engraved with odd, almost Berber-like symbols. He thumbed it open.
It wasn't ticking.
Curious, Yassin wound the watch.
And the world fell away.
He didn't faint. There was no light show. No sci-fi wormholes or buzzing noises. Just a sudden, sickening snap, like his stomach had dropped three floors. The attic dissolved. His breath caught in his throat as the scent of smoggy Casablanca vanished, replaced by something earthy—dates, charcoal, and something else. Something wild.
He staggered, reaching out blindly. His hand slapped a wooden wall, warm from the sun.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing in a narrow alley of ochre stone buildings, the cries of vendors echoing through the air. French and Arabic mingled in a swirl of shouts and haggling. A boy ran past him with no shoes, holding a basket of olives.
The skyline was wrong. There were no satellites, no billboards, no glass towers.
Yassin turned in a slow, stunned circle. A newspaper caught on the wind and slapped his leg. He picked it up.
"Le Petit Marocain – 14 Mars 1953."
His heart skipped.
1953
"What the hell…"
But then came a voice, sharp and familiar, and it made his blood run cold.
"Yassin?" a man said, staring at him as if he'd seen a ghost. "You look just like your grandfather