From behind came the dreaded, faint whir. Only minutes until the Chronogyn reached full charge.
Where was she?
He pulled the small journal from his coat pocket. As he folded back the soft leather cover, it opened to that page. It was a talisman, no more, every word memorised. He had planned to the very second. This country, city, hotel, room, year, day, hour. One moment in time upon which all that came after would rest. He could fix this… everything, if only he could find her.
Another whir, louder, and he felt the familiar pull; as if his insides were being drawn towards that small box through the hose of a vacuum cleaner.
She wasn’t coming. Somewhere amid all his calculations; an error. He could fix this. He could…
Too late, that whir, and something else, a key in a lock, the twist of a handle the creak…