They make such a fuss. The noise from the revellers in Times Square, even blocks away and muffled by glass and wards, was… excessive. Fireworks, shouting, forced merriment welcoming another arbitrary flip of the human calendar page. Year 2025. Sounds impossibly futuristic, yet here we are. Just… another Tuesday, astronomically speaking. Watched the glittering ball descend on a screen – safer, cleaner, and allows for better observation of the crowd’s collective emotional surge. A strange blend of hope, intoxication, and a frantic desire to feel something significant.

  The glamour holds. Still 21 in the reflection. Sometimes I forget, momentarily, until confronted by a mirror or the assumptions of strangers. Four centuries wearing this face – or variations of it – should make it feel like my own, yet it remains a construct, a necessary shield.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Cold night. Brewed coffee, strong and black, the ritual familiar and grounding across decades. Outside, the city's energy begins its slow comedown from the manufactured peak. The residual psychic static is palpable, a headache-inducing buzz of spent adrenaline and looming resolutions.

  Need to check the wards on the rosemary patch I keep on the fire escape. The sudden temperature drop might shock it, despite the protective enchantments. Fragile life, easily disrupted. Much like this city. Much like me, I suppose.

  Lyra