//CLARA//
I held the invitation between my thumb and forefinger, the paper thick enough to bruise. Mr. Chamberlain's letterhead sat embossed at the top like a crown, the type crisp and perfect, the ink still carrying that faint chemical bite of fresh printing.
My name—well Eleanor's name but whatever—spelled out in elegant serifs that seemed to mock everything I'd left behind in my real life.
This was real. I made this happen, though the world would call it Oliver's invention, or Mr. Chamberlain's innovation, or whatever man's name carried more weight. But I am the woman behind all this. I am part of this history.
Never in my entire life would I have expected this to happen.
I ran my fingertip across the raised lettering and felt something loosen in my chest, some knot I'd been carrying since the moment I woke up in this century with nothing but a stranger's memories and my own desperation to survive this hell-bound maze.
