I stirred awake in a narrow, creaking bed, the mattress sagging under me like an over-filled sack of grain.

The walls of the room were bare, the plaster cracked and peeling, and the only furniture—a splintered chest of drawers and a rickety chair—looked as though it might collapse at the slightest touch.

A single shuttered window admitted a sliver of dawn; its glass smeared with grime.

I lay still for several beats, heart pounding, as the realisation washed over me: I was no longer in modern London but trapped within the pages of some long-forgotten novel.

Footsteps thudded on the rough-hewn floor, and a tall man in a lumber jacket swung the door open, cradling a hefty block of wood. He set it down with a thud and called over his shoulder, “When’s breakfast, lass?” His accent was coarse but not unfriendly.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. No electric kettle, no stovetop, not even a clock to gauge the hour—only the low crackle of the hearth fire.

I forced myself to rise, determined not to betray my bewilderment.

By the hearth’s glow, I measured out flour, water and a pinch of salt, kneading the dough by hand as if I’d done it a hundred times before.

While it proved beneath the ash to rise—ever so slowly—I dusted the boarded floor before fetching crude honey and butter from a small wooden cupboard.

My fingertips trembled as I spread the golden sweetness over the warm, slightly charred loaf.

It was a humble repast, but I dared not reveal how strange even this simplicity felt.

In the hush between chopping wood and setting the table, I found a spare room that creaked like a ghost. Inside, racks of dried herbs and jars of peppercorns lined the walls—what one might call a spice cupboard in a contemporary kitchen.

I tucked a small pouch of lavender into my pocket, half in hope, half in fear, that it might remind me of the world I’d come from.

All the while, I kept my expression neutral, acutely aware of the need to remain inconspicuous until I could work out a way home.

Only after the stranger had departed to fetch more wood did I dare to scour the room for clues. On a battered writing desk lay a dog-eared volume titled “The Return to Evermere”.

My pulse leapt. Somehow—against every rule of reason—I’d become a character within these very pages.

Now, amid the tang of hearth smoke and the echo of a life not my own, I had to discover how to slip back through the margins and return to my own time.