The Man in the Black Coat

The café suddenly felt smaller.

Emilia’s fingers curled tightly around the warm ceramic mug as the man in the black coat stepped further into the room. His eyes were a stormy gray—cold, analytical, almost familiar—and they locked onto hers with unsettling precision.

He moved like someone used to commanding attention: slow, calculated, dangerous.

“Rose,” he said with a nod to the girl behind the counter. His voice was deep, low, and oddly smooth—like velvet with an edge of steel.

“Adrian,” Rose replied, surprised. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”

Adrian.

The name felt sharp on Emilia’s tongue, though she hadn’t spoken it. He was in his thirties, maybe older, dressed in a tailored black coat over a crisp dark suit. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just stepped out of a limousine—or a storm.

“I was nearby.” Adrian’s eyes didn’t leave Emilia.

“Thought I’d come in.”

Rose followed his gaze. “This is… Emilia. She needed a place to rest. Found her outside looking like she walked out of a period drama.”

“I see,” Adrian said quietly.

He walked to the table and paused. “May I?”

Emilia hesitated. Her instincts screamed danger, but something else—curiosity, maybe fate—told her to nod. “Yes.”

He sat. For a long moment, neither spoke. Rose, sensing the strange tension, politely stepped away.

“You’re not from here,” Adrian said finally.

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Emilia replied carefully. “I’m… new.”

“From Italy?”

“Yes.”

He studied her face. “You have the look of someone out of time.”

That startled her. She clutched the pocket watch beneath the blanket, hidden in her lap. “What do you mean?”

“I collect things,” Adrian said, leaning back.

“Artifacts. Stories. Sometimes… people. And once in a while, I find someone who doesn’t belong in this world.”

The hair on her neck rose. “Who are you?”

He smirked slightly. “Someone who’s seen stranger things than a girl in a blood-stained ballgown walking barefoot through Manhattan.”

His gaze dropped for a moment, then sharpened. “The watch. You have it, don’t you?”

Her stomach dropped. “What do you know about it?”

“Enough to know it doesn’t belong here either.”

Emilia stood up, heart racing. “Did you follow me? Do you work for my father?”

Adrian looked genuinely amused. “Your father? No. But I know who you are, Emilia De Luca. And I know you weren’t supposed to survive that explosion.”

Her breath caught.

“I don’t know how you know any of this,” she said, trembling, “but I didn’t ask to come here.”

“I believe you,” he said. “The watch chose. It always does.”

“Then help me,” she whispered. “Help me get back. I need to know if—if he’s alive. Luca.”

Adrian’s expression shifted for the first time—softened, almost imperceptibly.

“The past isn’t easy to return to,” he said. “But… there may be a way. You’re not the first.”

Her heart leapt. “Then take me to whoever knows.”

“I will. But not tonight.” He reached into his coat and handed her a sleek black card.

A logo of an hourglass and a single name: EPOCH.

“Meet me tomorrow morning. 8 a.m. Sharp. Trust no one. Not even Rose.”

Then, without waiting for her reply, Adrian stood and walked out into the night.

Emilia looked down at the card, the glowing city lights flickering across its surface.

For the first time since arriving in this strange world, she didn’t feel completely alone.

She had a name.

A path.

And maybe… a chance to go back.

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