Everything changed on a Tuesday afternoon when Lucy received a package by mistake. It wasn't the ergonomic keyboard she’d ordered. Inside the velvet-lined box was a vintage, leather-bound journal and a heavy brass key with a tag that simply read: The Midnight Gallery. 14 Wickham Lane.
He stepped toward a canvas covered in a black sheet and pulled it back. It wasn't a painting; it was a mirror, but the reflection wasn't beige. The Lucy in the glass wore a deep emerald coat. She was laughing. She was standing on a pier in a city Lucy didn’t recognize, holding a ticket to somewhere far beyond Oakhaven.
"That's the 'Not-So-Nice' Lucy," Julian whispered. "The one who speaks her mind. The one who takes the promotion in London. The one who stops apologizing for taking up space."
Julian handed her a fountain pen filled with shimmering violet ink. "Write the first sentence. And make sure it’s something you’ve never said out loud."
For the first time in her life, Lucy didn't check her watch. She didn't think about her five-year plan. She looked at the blank journal in her hands and realized it wasn't a mistake—it was an invitation. "What do I do first?" she asked.
"Actually," Lucy said, her voice steady and strange to her own ears, "I think I’m done being nice. I’ve decided to be interesting instead."
The man, whose nameplate read Julian , didn't take the box. "We don't make mistakes, Lucy. That journal belongs to a version of you that hasn't happened yet."