For a long second, no one moved.
The wind from the cliffside carried the salt smell of the sea and brushed against Lucian's cheek. He blinked, dazed, as his eyes darted between the two boys before him. One was his uncle Lance—there was no mistaking it. The same sharp nose, the same nervous mouth, even the faint dimple that ran along his cheek when he frowned. Except this Lance was alive, younger, and staring at him with a look of total disbelief.
The other boy, the one who had carried him all the way here, was glaring. Dark eyes glinted under the sunlight, sharp and demanding. That strange sensation Lucian had felt earlier—the warmth of his hand, the steady grip—had now shifted into something colder. The air between them felt heavier.
Rohan's jaw tightened. "You're not Lance," he said finally. "Who the hell are you?"
Lucian froze.
Every muscle in his body screamed to move. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. And then instinct took over.
He turned and ran.
"Hey—!" Rohan's shout came too late. Lucian was already darting through the garden, his shoes scraping the cobblestones. Behind him came the thundering steps of pursuit, Rohan's curses ringing across the open yard.
Ellis startled, spinning around. "Rohan—what are you—?"
"Wrong person!" Rohan snapped without looking back. "I'll explain later—stay with Lance!"
Ellis blinked, confusion dawning, then looked back at the real Lance, who was still standing by the bushes, pale and speechless. Two Lances. One breathless. One was stunned. The world had gone mad.
Meanwhile, Lucian dashed out of the manor grounds and into the street. His chest ached, breath shallow, but he didn't dare slow down. The road was lined with small shops and vintage cars, and people turned their heads at the strange boy running full tilt in panic. He nearly collided with a man carrying groceries and barely managed a mumbled apology before bolting again.
This isn't real, he thought wildly. It can't be real.
A loud horn blared—tires screeched—and he stumbled back just in time as an old blue sedan halted inches from his knees. The driver yelled something crude out the window, but Lucian barely heard it. He was already sprinting into the next alley, lungs burning.
It was a mistake. The narrow lane ended abruptly in a brick wall.
"Damn it," he gasped, pressing against the wall like it might give way.
Footsteps echoed behind him, steady and unhurried. Rohan appeared at the mouth of the alley, breathing hard but smirking, strands of hair sticking to his temple. Sweat clung to the collar of his shirt. He looked more amused than angry now, which only made Lucian more nervous.
"Well," Rohan panted, folding his arms, "you run fast for a liar."
Lucian backed up until his heel hit the wall. "S-stay away—"
Before Rohan could respond, Lucian's knees buckled. The tension, the shock, the absurdity of it all crashed down on him in one dizzying wave. He slid down the wall and buried his face in his hands.
And then he started to cry.
Not the quiet, composed kind. It was the desperate, choking kind—sobs that broke through his chest before he could stop them. His shoulders shook, his throat ached, and the world blurred behind tears.
Rohan blinked, thrown completely off guard. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the boy crumpled before him. Then, awkwardly, he scratched the back of his neck.
"Hey… uh… don't—cry," he said lamely. "I didn't even yell at you yet."
Lucian didn't answer. His words came out between hiccups. "I—I don't know where I am… I don't know how I got here— I was just—just at the cabin with my mother, and now—" He sniffled hard, trying to breathe. "I want to go home. To my mom. To— to my maid, and—and Grandpa—"
His voice cracked on the last word. Rohan's teasing expression faded.
The boy looked small now, hunched and trembling on the ground. Whatever anger Rohan had felt earlier dissolved into something quieter. Guilt, maybe. Or pity.
"Alright, alright," he said softly, crouching in front of Lucian. "Take a breath. No one's gonna hurt you, okay?"
Lucian didn't answer, but his sobs slowly dwindled. Minutes passed. Only the wind filled the silence.
When the last sniffle faded, Rohan leaned on one knee and met his eyes. "You done?" he asked gently.
Lucian's face was blotchy, eyes rimmed red. He nodded weakly.
"Good." Rohan sighed. "Now. Let's start over." He paused, tilting his head. "Who are you really?"
Lucian pouted, rubbing his sleeve over his face. "You won't believe me."
"Try me."
He hesitated, then whispered, "I'm not from here."
Rohan raised an eyebrow.
"I mean—not from this time." The words spilled out faster now, like a dam breaking. "I'm from 2025. This—this place—it's really 1985, isn't it?"
Rohan frowned before nodding as a response to Lucian.
"My uncle Lance—he's dead in my time. I was just in our manor—our burned manor—and when I found this old cabin, a lantern lit up and—then I was here." His voice wavered again. "Ellis is dead too. No one knows how. Everyone said my uncle lost his mind after that night."
The name Ellis made Rohan's expression change—sharpen, just slightly. But he didn't interrupt. Lucian continued, quieter now.
"I don't know why this is happening," he muttered. "But it's real, isn't it? This isn't a dream."
Rohan leaned back on his heels, studying him in silence. His eyes—dark and intelligent—moved like he was solving a puzzle. Finally, he exhaled.
"So, you're saying you're from forty years in the future," he said slowly. "And you just… appeared here."
Lucian nodded miserably.
Rohan tapped his knee, considering. "Huh."
Lucian glared. "See? You don't believe me."
"That's not it," Rohan said. "You don't look like you're lying." He tilted his head. "But it's a lot to swallow, you know? I need proof."
Lucian groaned. "Proof? How can I even—"
Then he froze. His hand darted to his pocket.
"Wait—maybe…"
He fished out his phone. Miraculously, it was still there, a little scratched but intact. He thought he lost it when Rohan carried him upside down earlier. His heart leapt. With shaking hands, he pressed the power button and the screen lit up instantly.
The glow startled Rohan. "What in—"
"It's my phone," Lucian said quickly, thrusting it forward. "See? Photos. Look at the date."
Rohan leaned in. The images flicked past his eyes: a glowing skyline, a bright café interior, people dressed in unfamiliar clothes. At the top corner of the screen, the date read June 12, 2025.
He stared, speechless for once.
"Believe me now?" Lucian challenged, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Rohan didn't answer immediately. He took the phone from Lucian's hands, turning it over with fascination, pressing the smooth glass surface. When it buzzed at his touch, he nearly dropped it.
"What kind of device is this?" he murmured. "No buttons… and it lights up?"
Lucian sniffled. "A smartphone. Everyone has one."
Rohan looked even more intrigued. "Smart, huh." He grinned faintly. "Smarter than most people I know."
Lucian just glared weakly, too tired to argue.
Rohan exhaled, returning the phone. "Alright. You win. I believe you." His grin softened. "You really are from the future, huh?"
"I told you so," Lucian muttered.
There was a brief silence. Then Rohan stood and dusted his hands on his jeans. "Well," he said, tone suddenly lighter, "now you're here, and you definitely need an identity."
Lucian blinked. "What?"
Rohan offered a hand to help him up, his grin turning almost conspiratorial.
"I'll help you."
Lucian stared at the hand, unsure whether to trust it—but in the sunlight, the grin didn't look cruel. Just… annoyingly confident.