Chapter?25 (Joshua’s?POV)
(0?Seconds—Return)
The Gate spat me out with a sound like tearing silk. One heartbeat I was wrapped in copper light, thirteen pounds of cash clutched to my chest; the next I slammed onto rough concrete slick with condensation. The impact jarred my teeth, left my knees screaming. Cold air smelled of wet stone and mildew—no gunfire, no carrion wind. Home.
Above my vision flickered while a translucent text scrolled across the dark like an after?image:
TRANSFER COMPLETE
Cargo Value Detected: $21,500.00
10?% Transit Fee deducted: $2,150.00
Outstanding Realm?Debt Cleared: $3,350.00
Net Balance Delivered: $16,000.00
Have a profitable day.
The numbers dissolved, leaving me blinking in the gloom. I flexed numb fingers around the rag?wrapped bundle—heavier now that it represented lumber, antibiotics, coffee, hope. Sixteen grand. Enough to keep my promise to Anna and maybe buy myself a margin of safety in both worlds.
I staggered upright, candle?weak legs protesting. The basement greeted me like a crypt: low ceiling of rough?sawn joists, stone foundation walls sweating cold tears, cobwebs draped between rusted ducts. The single bulb overhead had burnt out years ago; only gray dawn leaking through a grime?frosted window allowed me to see. The floor sloped gently to a drain clogged with leaves that smelled of iron and decay.
Mold mapped the walls in continents of black and emerald. I brushed past an ancient furnace that looked forged in the Civil War; its flue rattled with every gust outside, producing a hollow moan. Cardboard boxes—my father’s forgotten tax returns, a Christmas wreath matted with mouse nests—leaned against sagging shelves. Water dripped rhythmically from a copper pipe, plinking into a dented bucket and echoing like a metronome for the dead.
And at the far end stood the burnished copper door—monolithic, impossible, its engraved cityscape glinting even in the meager light. A faint warmth radiated from it, baking the air just enough to ward off the damp chill.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
As I limped closer, something pale fluttered against the copper: a sheet of yellowed stationery pinned beneath a tarnished tack. The paper had curled with age, edges browned like old toast, yet the handwriting—my father’s unmistakable cursive—flowed in black ink still sharp after decades.
I peeled it free with trembling fingers and read:
(To the Traveler who finds this note,
If you are reading these words, you have already glimpsed the parallel timeline that lies beyond this door. The people there are as real as you or I, and many possess a kindness rarer than on our side of the veil. Treat them with respect and generosity; they will return it tenfold. You will discover that what is scarce here can be abundant there, and vice?versa. Should you choose to engage in commerce—whether trade of goods or the subtler art of the stock market—do so with caution, but know the potential for prosperity is vast. Wealth, however, is only a tool. Character remains the true currency. If by some grace you encounter my beloved wife, Mirabelle, tell her that Richard still keeps the porch light on.
—R. Reeves, September?2,?1970)
My breath caught. 1970—five years before I was even a thought. He’d known about the door decades, maybe his whole life, yet never spoke a word. The realization hung heavy, thick as the basement air. My father’s secret life, his silent grief for a wife lost to another world. A porch light left burning in vain.
I folded the note with reverence, slid it into my jacket’s inner pocket. Questions swarmed—why he’d stopped traveling, why he hadn’t told me—but they would wait. Anna needed lumber more than I needed answers.
Concrete stairs climbed into darkness at the far wall. I ascended, cash bundle thumping against my chest. Halfway up, the wooden treads creaked like old bones. Cobwebs brushed my face; I wiped them away, leaving smears of dust across my cheek.
At the top step I paused, hand on the corroded knob. For a moment I simply listened—to the house settling, to a refrigerator hum upstairs, to the faint whoosh of passing cars beyond curtained windows. No moans, no distant gunfire. Civilization.
I sucked in a breath that tasted of stale coffee grounds and dust—mundane, perfect. Then I pushed the door open.
Light from the kitchen skylight spilled across scuffed linoleum. A calendar on the fridge still displayed last month; junk mail lay unopened on the counter. Everything exactly as I’d left it, yet I felt like a trespasser in my own timeline—barefoot, bruised, carrying blood?speckled money.
I exhaled, squared my shoulders. In twelve hours I’d be standing in front of Anna again—hopefully with gold chains, crowbars, boxes of nails, and enough soap to drown the apocalypse’s stink. My father’s note burned warm against my chest, a compass pointing through time.
First stop: the shower. Second: every shop from Harlem to Canal. The Gate’s metronome still ticked in my skull, but for once it sounded like possibility rather than doom.
I shut the basement door, turned the bolt, and let the house welcome me home.
END of BOOK: 2
