Lena drags her younger brother into a hidden garden and unlocks a sealed gazebo that holds a strange machine, old notes, and a clock that should not be running at all.
Lena cut between the overgrown hedges, moving fast enough that the wild roses snagged at her sleeves. Philip trailed behind her, irritated and half-amused, the way younger brothers always were when they were dragged into something they had not agreed to. They were spending the holidays with an aunt on the edge of town, far from reliable Wi-Fi and anything Philip considered civilisation. Lena, though, liked the place. She liked the silence, the old house, and most of all the garden behind it.
The garden felt wrong in a way she could never explain. The trees leaned close together, crowding out the light. Herbs grew in rough patches under the branches, crushing their sharp scent into the warm air. Beneath a tangle of horseradish leaves, where no one ever looked, Lena had found a rusty key the previous summer. She had kept it hidden in her pocket for weeks before deciding Philip had finally earned the right to see what it opened.
"Come on," she said, slowing beside a small gazebo under an ancient oak. It was nearly swallowed by vines, its door sealed with a padlock bigger than Philip's fist. "This is it."
Philip stared at her. "And this is supposed to be impressive?"
Lena held up the key. The padlock clicked open at once, too easily, as if it had been waiting for her. She pushed the door, and it gave way with a long, dry groan.
Inside, the air was stale and cold. A carved armchair sat in the centre of the gazebo. Piles of books with brittle yellow pages were stacked against the walls. On one side hung a huge mechanical clock, its brass face dim under a skin of dust. Notes were pinned everywhere in a neat, cramped hand: "Phase II." "Wheel of Time." "Do not touch the key while the apparatus is active."
Philip stopped complaining.
Lena bent to pick up a thick book that had slipped onto the floor. Its pages were covered in diagrams, all gears and coils and strange hooked lines, as if someone had tried to draw a bicycle, a clock, and a machine from a dream into the same invention. One sketch was labelled with a name she did not know: Professor Woltman.
From the darkest corner of the gazebo, something made a soft, metallic murmur.
Lena froze.
The clock on the wall started ticking faster, then faster still. Its hands jerked backward in a violent blur. Blue light spilled from beneath the armchair, pulsing against the wood and glass until the entire room seemed to breathe with it. Philip backed toward the door, but it slammed shut hard enough to shake the vines outside.
Then a voice spoke from behind her, low and clear and not quite human.
"Are you ready for a journey you will never forget?"
The light surged, the room lurched, and Lena felt the floor vanish beneath her feet.