Caitlin examined the smooth, stone floor, and saw, near the window, two slight imprints, a few inches apart, in the shape of a knee. She wondered how many nuns had prayed here, had knelt before the window. This room had probably seen hundreds of years of use.

Caitlin went over to the small bed, and laid down. It was just a stone slab, really, with the tiniest bit of straw. She tried to get comfortable, rolling on her side—and then she felt something. She reached over and extracted it, and realized with delight what it was: her journal.

She held it up, so happy to have it by her side. Her old trusted friend, it seemed to be the one thing that had survived the journey back. Holding it, this real, tangible thing, made her realize that this was not all a dream. She was really here. Everything had really happened.

A modern pen slipped out of its pages and landed on her lap. She held it up and examined it, thinking.

Yes, she decided. That was exactly what she needed to do. To write. To process. Everything had happened so fast, she’d hardly had time to catch her breath. She needed to play it through in her mind, to think back, to remember. How had she gotten here? What had happened? Where was she going?

She wasn’t sure if she knew the answers herself anymore. But by writing, she hoped she could remember.

Caitlin turned the brittle pages over until she found an empty page. She sat up and leaned against the wall, curled her knees to her chest and began to write.

How did I end up here? In Assisi? In Italy? In 1790? On the one hand, it doesn’t seem like long ago that I was back in the 21st century, in New York, living a normal teenage life. On the other hand, it seems like forever….How did it all begin?