The walk through the forest started normally enough. Same trees I'd been looking at for decades, same paths worn by deer and the occasional confused hiker who somehow wandered past my ward boundary. The morning air was crisp, and for the first time in years, I had somewhere to actually go.
This is nice. I should have done this sooner.
It took about an hour before I started noticing the changes. First, it was just small things—trail markers with strange symbols, pieces of colorful trash that definitely hadn't existed in the 1930s. Then I heard something that made me stop dead in my tracks.
A low, rumbling sound. Rhythmic. Getting closer.
Oh, right. The metal beasts.
I'd forgotten about automobiles. In my defense, the last time I'd seen one, they were barely faster than horses and made enough noise to wake the dead. This thing that rounded the bend was... different. Sleeker. Quieter, but somehow more powerful-sounding.
It whooshed past me on what used to be a dirt road but was now covered in some kind of black stone with perfectly painted yellow lines down the middle.
"When did humans start painting on their paths?" I muttered, staring at the yellow stripes. "And why yellow? Seems arbitrary."
Although I suppose if you're going to pick a color for path decoration, yellow is reasonably visible. Better than, say, dark green. That would just blend in with everything else and defeat the purpose of... whatever this purpose is.
The metal beast—car, I reminded myself, they're called cars—disappeared around another bend, leaving me standing on the edge of what was apparently no longer a simple dirt road. I approached cautiously, as if the painted lines might be some sort of territorial marker that would trigger consequences if crossed.
They weren't, as far as I could tell. I stepped onto the black stone surface, which was remarkably smooth compared to the cobblestones I remembered from European cities. Progress, I suppose.
The next hour was a series of increasingly bewildering discoveries. More cars, for starters—lots more. They came in colors I'd never seen on vehicles before: bright blues, deep reds, something that might have been purple. Some were enormous, larger than the carriages that belonged to wealthy merchants. Others were tiny, barely big enough for two people.
Do humans choose their transportation based on their social status now? Or is it purely aesthetic preference? And how do they all know which direction to go?
Then I noticed the poles.
Tall wooden posts stretched along the road at regular intervals, connected by thick black ropes that definitely weren't rope. They hummed with an energy that made my magical senses tingle.
"They've strung lightning between poles," I said aloud, because there was no one around to judge me for talking to myself. "That seems... dangerous. But also impressive, I suppose. When did humans learn to capture lightning?"
More importantly, why did they decide to hang it on poles like laundry? Seems like there would be more efficient storage methods.
Above me, something roared.
I looked up to see one of the metal birds I remembered from Europe, except this one was massive. Easily ten times the size of the ones that had driven me to flee. It moved across the sky with the sort of confidence that suggested humans had not only mastered flight but had decided to make their flying contraptions unnecessarily large.
"Oh good," I said, watching it disappear beyond the treeline. "The metal birds are still flying. At least some things stay consistent."
Although that one was significantly bigger than the ones from twenty years ago. Do they grow? Are humans breeding them for size? That seems unwise.
The road led me toward what had once been a small settlement but was now... something else entirely. Buildings stretched toward the sky in ways that seemed to defy reasonable construction principles. Everything was angular, geometric, like someone had decided that curves were inefficient and banned them.
Did humans forget how to make curves? These buildings look like someone tried to draw a city using only rulers.
Signs were everywhere, mounted on poles, hanging from buildings, attached to more poles. Most of them used words I recognized, but in combinations that made no sense. "MERGE LEFT." "NO PARKING 8AM-6PM EXCEPT SUNDAYS." "SPEED LIMIT 35."
I tried to read them as I walked, but that turned out to be more challenging than expected. Apparently, being nine months pregnant affects your ability to crane your neck upward while maintaining balance. Who knew?
After nearly toppling over trying to decipher a particularly confusing sign about "AUTHORIZED VEHICLES ONLY," I decided to focus on staying upright and let the mystery of modern signage remain unsolved.
The buildings grew taller and more numerous as I continued toward what was obviously the center of town. People appeared—actual humans, walking around like they belonged here. Which, I suppose, they did.
But they were all doing the strangest thing.
Every single person was staring at small, glowing rectangles.
Did everyone become scribes? Why are they all reading constantly?
They held these rectangles in their hands, sometimes raising them to their ears, occasionally poking at them with their fingers. A few people had small ropes connecting the rectangles to their ears. The rectangles glowed with a soft light, and people stared at them with the sort of focused attention I usually reserved for complex magical calculations.
Magic rectangles. That's... actually pretty impressive. Though it seems to have made everyone anti-social. No one's talking to each other.
I stopped at what appeared to be a major intersection to observe this phenomenon more closely. Person after person walked past, each absorbed in their glowing rectangle. Some smiled at whatever they were seeing. Others frowned. One person laughed out loud, then looked embarrassed when they realized people might have heard them.
It's like they're all having conversations with the rectangles. Are the rectangles sentient? Is this some sort of widespread magical communication system?
The more I watched, the more fascinated I became. This was clearly some sort of technological advancement that had occurred during my absence. Everyone had one. Even children had smaller versions.
Everyone's a wizard now. That's... that's actually remarkable. Magic for the masses. Though they seem to have skipped the traditional education period about not ignoring your physical surroundings while casting spells.
As if to prove my point, two people nearly collided because they were both staring at their rectangles instead of watching where they were going. They apologized to each other without looking up from their devices.
I was so busy people-watching that I almost missed the smell.
Coffee.
Now that's a scent I recognize.
The aroma drifted from a building with large windows and what appeared to be tables and chairs visible inside. A sign hung above the door with words I could actually understand: "The Daily Grind - Coffee & Community."
Well, at least some things haven't changed. Humans still need their morning stimulants.
Through the windows, I could see people sitting at tables, many still absorbed in their magic rectangles, but some actually talking to each other. The warm light inside looked welcoming after the overwhelming confusion of modern street navigation.
Coffee smells like coffee. That's encouraging. Maybe not everything has been revolutionized beyond recognition.
I approached the door, which was made of glass and had a handle that looked reassuringly familiar. The building itself was brick, which seemed refreshingly traditional compared to the angular metal and glass structures I'd been seeing.
As I reached for the handle, I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass reflection and realized I probably looked exactly like what I was: someone who'd been living alone in the woods for decades. My dress, while clean, was definitely not what the other people on the street were wearing. My hair was long and probably a bit wild. And I was obviously, dramatically pregnant.
Well, too late to worry about making a good first impression now.
I pulled open the door, and a small bell chimed—apparently some traditions really didn't change. The sound was cheerful, familiar, and made me smile for the first time since leaving my cabin.
The interior was... overwhelming.
Machines hummed and hissed behind a long counter. Music played from somewhere, though I couldn't see any musicians. The air smelled like coffee, yes, but also like things I couldn't identify. Sweet things. Warm things. Complex things.
People sat at small tables, and yes, most of them were still staring at their magic rectangles, but the atmosphere felt welcoming in a way that the street hadn't.
Behind the counter stood a young woman with short, dark hair and kind eyes. She was doing something complicated with one of the hissing machines, but she looked up when the bell chimed and smiled.
"Good morning! Welcome to the Daily Grind!"
Her voice was warm and cheerful, and for the first time in... well, longer than I cared to calculate, another human being was speaking directly to me.
Don't panic, Lyria. You know how to talk to humans. You used to do it all the time.
"Good morning," I managed, walking toward the counter. "I would like some coffee, please."
She glanced down at my belly—impossible to miss at this stage—and her expression immediately shifted to concern.
"Of course! But wow, when are you due? You look like you're ready to pop any minute! Are you feeling okay?"
Ready to... pop? Is that a medical term now? And why does she seem so worried?
I blinked at her, processing this unexpected level of concern about my condition. "Due?"
"Your baby!" She gestured at my belly with obvious concern. "When's your due date? You're looking pretty close to term there. Should you even be walking around by yourself?"
Oh. Right. She thinks this pregnancy is going to end at some point.
"I... it's complicated," I said, which was possibly the most accurate thing I'd said in decades.
"Okay, well, let me get you that coffee and you can sit down. Regular coffee okay?"
"Yes, please."
She turned to the machines behind her, moving with practiced efficiency. "That'll be three-fifty," she called over her shoulder as she poured coffee from a pot.
Three-fifty what? Hopefully whatever they call money now.
I reached into my pouch for payment while she finished preparing my drink. My fingers found the familiar weight of coins, and I selected what seemed like a reasonable amount.
She turned back and set the coffee cup in front of me, then took a casual sip from her own cup while waiting for me to pay.
I placed a silver denarius on the counter.
The moment Riley's eyes focused on the coin, her reaction was immediate and dramatic.
PPPFFFFFFFFFTTTTT!
Coffee sprayed across the counter as she choked in shock, staring at what I'd just placed in front of her.
"Is— is that a real Roman denarius?!"
"Oops, wrong coin!" I said quickly, reaching back into my pouch in a panic.
I placed an Italian lira on the counter instead, hoping this would be less shocking.
Riley's eyes widened even further as she examined the new coin. "Holy crap... the date says 1936... this is from before World War II began."
Great... humans and their— hey wait... that's about the time they got noisy.
She stared at me, then at the coins, then back at me. I could practically see her brain trying to process what was happening.
"I..." she started, then stopped. "You know what? Forget it. Don't worry about paying. It's on the house."
She's giving up on understanding the situation. That's probably wise.
"But I should pay—"
"No, really, it's fine." She pushed both coins back toward me. "Consider it a welcome-to-Asheville gift. I'm Riley, by the way."
Riley. A name. She has a name, and she's being kind to a stranger who just tried to pay for coffee with ancient currency.
"I'm Lyria," I said, accepting the coffee gratefully. "And thank you."
"No problem at all. But seriously, you should sit down. That chair by the window looks comfortable, and you need to rest."
She pointed toward a corner of the shop where a large, upholstered chair sat near a window that looked out onto the street. It did look significantly more comfortable than the small wooden chairs at the tables.
When did furniture get so... soft? That chair looks like it could swallow a person whole.
"I have about two hours left on my shift," Riley continued, "then I'm free. If you need anything, just let me know, okay?"
She's offering to help. A stranger who just witnessed me apparently pay with outdated currency is offering to help me. When did Roman denarii become outdated?
The genuine kindness in her offer was unexpected and touching. When had humans become so generous to confused strangers?
"That's very kind of you," I managed. "Thank you."
"Hey, that's what community is for. Now go sit down, prop your feet up and rest."
Community. When was the last time I was part of a community?
I made my way carefully to the indicated chair, which was indeed as comfortable as it looked. From this vantage point, I could watch the street through the window while staying safely inside the warm, coffee-scented sanctuary of the shop.
Maybe human civilization did improve while I was away. This Riley person is genuinely kind. Maybe the rest of them learned how to be decent to each other too.
Outside the window, people continued walking past with their magic rectangles, and somewhere in the distance, metal birds flew overhead.
Everything was different, confusing, and overwhelming.
But for the first time in... well, a very long time, I wasn't alone. And I had two hours to figure out what to do next.
Riley said she'd help me after her shift. Maybe this modern world won't be so impossible to navigate after all.