And so, she’d wait.
She’d wait for death.
The next day, it still hadn’t come.
That evening, a light flashed nearby, accompanied by the crackling sounds of thunder and sparks. Wind rushed through the alley, picking up leaves and trash, pelting her body. Then a sudden darkness blossomed, making her feel as if she’d been cast into a dungeon. Scared, she shifted, trying to shrink farther into the corner.
The shadow of a man stood before her. It took a while, but her eyes adjusted, and she could finally see him, standing there, silent and watchful. He was bald, and hideous scars marked his face. He wore a robe, its hood pulled down around his shoulders. And there was something terribly wrong with one of his eyes, though she couldn’t quite see well enough to know for sure.
“Who are you?” she asked in a rasp, her throat dry as decayed bones.
The man sank toward the ground and knelt before her. That eye. She could see it now. Bloodshot and puffy, like it was riddled with disease.
“My name doesn’t matter,” he answered, his voice deep. “I’m a descendant of Ilsa, the only name we speak.”
“Ilsa?” Tilda repeated.
“Yes. I have something to show you.”
The man pulled out a metallic object, shining golden even in the scant light. Tilda recognized the shape — the sign for infinity. Her heart leapt back to life, consumed with so much joy she worried of dying, right there in the alley, the victim of too much emotion at once.
“What . . . how?” she sputtered, confusion threatening to destroy her elation at seeing the device.
The man spoke with soothing tones. “Ilsa commanded her posterity to study the sciences, find a way to travel through time. And we’ve done it. And you, Tilda, you are our first mission. I was sent here to get you.” He reached out and gently helped her stand up, his touch bringing a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Thank you,” she said, too dazed to find any other words.
“Come,” he said, holding out the golden device for her to grasp. “We need you to show us the way.”