A silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken truths. Then he added, barely above a whisper, “I’m your last thread of hope, Alina. Your last thread.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving nothing but the echo of his warning and the bitter weight of unanswered questions.
But deep down, I knew he was right.
I had no choice but to follow the threads wherever they led.
On the night of the full moon, Dancing Fire and I were catapulted through time and landed in a world that defied all reason. Vancouver, BC, 1988 was a land of the bizarre, brimming with color, chaos, and incomprehensible noise. Metal machines zipped across smooth black roads or soared above us in the sky. People moved in every direction, dressed—or undressed—in ways I couldn’t begin tounderstand. We’d stepped into a dream stitched together from madness and marvel.
A cacophony of unfamiliar sounds assaulted our ears—buzzes, beeps, music blaring from invisible speakers. Strange scents drifted through the air, some sweet, some sharp, all unplaceable. My senses reeled.
One thing was certain—this was not the world we’d left behind. There was no darkness here—only constant, blinding light. And something calledtechnologyseemed to reign supreme.
Armed with only our knowledge of time travel and a vague hope of adaptation, we stepped cautiously into the bustling streets, doing our best to blend in. We understood the language… and yet the meaning often slipped past us, drenched in slang, tone, and cultural codes we didn’t know how to read.
Still, as the days passed, I began to adjust. The culture of Vancouver, with all its contradictions and freedoms, unfolded before me. Life here—especially for women—was unlike anything I’d known. Women could choose multiple lovers… or none at all. They fought for gender equality, reproductive rights, and against domestic violence and harassment. These weren’t whispered about behind closed doors—they were spoken out loud, boldly, without shame.
I embraced those values with every fiber of my being. I became an advocate, stepping into this era as a time traveler and a woman reborn.
Dancing Fire, on the other hand—or Moon Lee, as he’d called himself—seemed to retreat further into himself with each passing day.
“Come on, Lee,” I said one afternoon as we wandered along the Burrard Inlet in Emerald Cove Beach. The sun was warm on my skin, and the air carried the gentle scent of salt and flowers. I’d dressed to match the city’s electric pulse—hot-pink leggings, a neon-green mini skirt, and a slouchy black tank top that danced in the breeze. The park’s beauty wrapped around me like a warm embrace, but Lee remained distant.
I was captivated by the towering fir trees stretching endlessly toward the sky, their tops swaying gently with the breeze. The air was rich with the scent of cedar and pine, occasionally touched by the salty kiss of ocean air from the nearby coast. Wildflowersflanked the path—purple lupines, vibrant dandelions, and delicate white daisies—a blooming welcome as we wandered through the lush forest toward the beach.
“Come on, what?” Lee muttered, his voice tinged with that familiar sulky edge.
“Admit it—you like women’s freedoms in this era.” I grinned, spreading my arms wide before twirling in a giddy circle. The neon fabric of my skirt fluttered around me like a flame.
He responded with a grunt. No surprise.
“Don’t be shy,” I teased. “This is the age ofExpress Yourself. You know that Madonna song? “Don’t go for second best, baby,” I sang, tossing a wink over my shoulder. “‘Put your love to the test.’”
Another grunt.
“It’s live and let live, baby,” I said, nudging his arm as we resumed our stroll. “Women are equals here. We don’t just belong in kitchens anymore.”
“When wereyouever ‘relegated to the kitchen’?” he asked, brow raised. “You’ve lived a privileged life entirely of your own design.”
“Under the thumb of a control freak,” I snapped, the nameBalthazarblooming in my mind like a bruise. I stooped to pluck the petals from a daisy and let them scatter into the breeze, like tiny fragments of a thought I didn’t want to say aloud.
“Yeah,” Lee muttered, shooting me a sidelong glance.
That single word ignited something hot beneath my skin. I stopped in my tracks, turning to face him. My good mood vanished with the wind, drifting off with the flower petals I’d just released.
“Yeah, what?” I asked, voice tight, simmering.
All I could hear was our breathing, tangled in the silence between us.
Then he sneered. “That’s the thing—I can’t tell if you want to kill Balthazar orridehim hard and leave him dripping.”
My stomach turned. “Stop spying on me,” I snapped.
“Kinda hard not to, given the cracker box we’re calling home.”
“You’re the one who vetoed me selling my body for cash,” I fired back, crossing my arms.
“You’re right. You’d get arrested. Thrown in jail. Women’s rights haven’t comethatfar.”
