It began with a bird.
Not a flock. Not a storm. Just one sparrow, fluttering through downtown Chicago at 3:17 p.m.—except it left no shadow.
Then the streetlights flickered… backward.
Pedestrians froze as the digital clock above Union Station jumped from 15:17 to 15:16, then 15:15, then skipped to 09:03—a Tuesday in 1987.
A woman dropped her coffee. "What the hell?"
Before anyone could answer, the air rippled.
Like heat off pavement—but colder. Sharper.
And then they saw it.
A horse-drawn cart rolled down Michigan Avenue.
No driver. No harness. Just wood and iron, wheels silent on asphalt, passing right through a delivery van like it wasn't there.
People screamed.
But the cart didn't stop. It faded halfway down the block, dissolving into mist that smelled of coal smoke and wet wool.
