I am woken up by the sound of wings colliding into one another. Not quite a fluttering of butterflies, or even a flapping of birds. It’s a heavy, dense, sort of noise. Angels, maybe. God, even?

Every time the wings clap down, my heart sways just a little bit faster. Every time they fly back up, I hold my breath and wait.

I know what is happening, I have been here before. But I refuse to open my eyes before it is over. Before I am relinquished. 

These are not my enemies, I must tell myself over and over again. They are not my friends. The wings of time have no blood nor foes. 

I hum the chant like it is the last thread of knowledge I hold. I know nothing more than this. And yet, as I am thrusted back to a time I have no memory of, I feel the silk strings of hope wrap around my limbs, my body, my throat. It chokes me with anticipation, pains me with excitement. I know I must not—cannot—change anything. But this hope, she follows me on my journey nonetheless. I am grateful for the company.

When the beating of the wings ceases, I know it is time. Or, I guess, I don’t know the time. But I am about to find out.

Expelling a shaky sigh, I open my eyes, only to see myself staring back. I am in a dark room, lit only by a small, golden lamp, whose location I can’t quite pinpoint. In fact, I cannot pinpoint anything. Every direction I turn to, I am confronted with my own dazed, disoriented face. I am in a shadowy room of a thousand mirrors, and I still don’t know when I am—

That is when I hear the cry. Actually, not quite a cry, a squeal. A baby’s. Accompanied by what seems to be the tender giggle of a mother. 

“You’re my little cutie, you’re my little moonchild baby,” I hear the mother whisper to her child. As I search frantically for the source of the voices, I can’t help but wonder if I know them.

Moonchild baby. I have heard that somewhere. An inscription somewhere. A forgotten lullaby. I rack my brain as desperately as I scan the room—helplessly, hopelessly, aimlessly. 

The agitation continues for several minutes, before the voices quiet down, and the silence is once again punctured by the distant beating of wings. I am about to give up and accept my defeat when the memory shrouded in the crevices of my brain reveals itself. I know who they were. I know who the woman is!

I scream her name as loud as my lungs allow me, but just as the sound exits my lips, it is met with the shattering of a thousand mirrors and the flapping of unearthly wings as I am carried away from this time, and back to my own.