Chapter 4
Micah's Morning — New York, 1824
The morning air carried the sharp tang of salt and coal smoke as Micah stepped out from the townhouse his family now proudly called home. He wore a fitted dark coat, waistcoat, and neatly tied cravat—clothes that marked him as the son of merchants risen beyond poverty, yet still not quite among the city's elite. His boots clicked against the cobblestones with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. At his side, a slim leather satchel swung with the weight of ledgers and folded papers, the tools of a life already chosen for him.
Broadway was stirring. Carriages rattled past, wheels spraying dust where horses stamped impatiently. A German baker across the way clapped his hands together, clouds of flour rising as he arranged fresh loaves in his shop window. A trio of Irish immigrants wrestled a trunk from a wagon, voices sharp with the lilt of their homeland, sweat darkening their shirts despite the early hour. To Micah, all of it seemed ordinary—and yet not. There was a faint current in the air, like the hush before a storm, and it made his pulse quicken though he could not say why.
He adjusted his cravat, scanning faces as though they might hold the answer to his unease. A pair of newsboys darted past, one shouting, "Fire on the East River! Read all about it!" Their voices tangled with the clamor of vendors setting up carts—apples, ribbons, pins, and penny trinkets glinting in the growing sun. Micah felt the world was moving with its usual rhythm, but the rhythm seemed off-beat to him, the melody sour. Every sound rang sharper than it should, every glance lingered longer, every shadow stretched further. Something was wrong.
He stopped at the corner, buying a bread roll for a penny. The baker's boy smiled up at him with flour-smudged cheeks, but Micah hardly tasted the bread. His eyes wandered beyond the bustle. Down the street, a funeral procession wound slowly past, a black-draped carriage followed by mourners in somber gray. The sight pulled at him strangely. He had never feared death—not truly—but this morning, it felt closer than it ought to, like a hand brushing the back of his neck.
The satchel tugged heavy at his side, but it was not the weight of ledgers that troubled him. It was the pocket watch. He slipped a hand inside his coat and drew it out. The metal was cool, gleaming with impossible artistry: a face framed by ornate petals, gears of gold ticking with otherworldly precision, numbers inscribed in delicate Roman script. It was no common timepiece, though he had long pretended to himself it was merely an heirloom. To him, it had always felt alive, as though it watched and waited.
The watch's hands trembled faintly, out of sync with the city's bells. A soft hum pressed against his palm, no louder than breath. Micah frowned, tilting it toward the rising sun. The time was not wrong—it was pointing. The longer he stared, the more certain he became. The second hand was no longer moving in circles but in arcs, twitching toward some unseen path. He swallowed hard, glancing about, but no one else seemed to notice. The city bustled as if blind.
He tucked the watch close, heart pounding. He was seventeen, nearly eighteen, and supposed to be on his way to the counting house to tally imports from the last ship. But something inside him rebelled. Something deeper than duty, stronger than fear. The world felt tilted, as if the ground itself had shifted beneath his feet, and the watch—this strange, beautiful watch—was pulling him toward its secret.
Around him, New York lived in fragments: a wealthy carriage clattering past with polished brass fittings, the driver snapping his whip; dockworkers groaning as they heaved barrels of molasses onto carts; a street preacher raising his hands to warn of God's wrath, his voice lost in the din. Each vignette was sharp, alive, yet to Micah they all blurred at the edges. What stood out was the pull, the sense of being called.
He paused beneath the shadow of a church spire, its bells tolling the hour, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath. The watch glowed faintly in his hand, light flickering across its ornate casing as though fire moved behind the steel. Micah gripped it tighter, his thoughts restless. He could go on to the counting house, to the ledgers, to the path carved for him by others. Or he could follow this strange, wrong-beautiful current that whispered through his bones.
His breath quickened. Around him, children played, women bargained, men argued over coin—but he felt none of it touched him. It was as though he stood one step removed, watching a play performed on a stage he no longer belonged to. The watch pulsed again. Something was waiting for him, just beyond the next street. Something unseen, something vast. And though dread coiled in his gut, he knew—he knew—that to ignore it would be to lose himself forever.