It is night, about 63F(17C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At High and Sidney/span>/span There is a waning crescent moon.

The humid July night wraps around Constance like a damp blanket as she finds herself in the narrow alley between two towering Gothic buildings. The weak yellow glow from the iron lamp above barely illuminates the worn cobblestones beneath her feet, casting long shadows that seem to shift and dance in her peripheral vision. The air carries that peculiar scent of old paper and metallic copper that permeates this part of the university district.

A sound breaks the oppressive silence – the distinct echo of footsteps coming from the far end of the alley, measured and deliberate against the stone. The footsteps pause, and then a woman’s voice drifts through the still air, humming what sounds like numbers rather than a melody – a strange, mathematical sequence that seems to follow some complex pattern.

Constance catches a glimpse of movement in the lamplight ahead. A figure in what appears to be an old-fashioned university coat materializes briefly in the yellow glow, then melts back into the shadows near the brick wall. As her eyes adjust, she notices one particular brick that sits slightly proud of the others, as if it doesn’t quite belong.

The humming continues, growing more urgent, more complex, before cutting off abruptly. In the sudden silence that follows, that oddly-placed brick begins to emit a faint phosphorescent glow, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

Constance approaches the brick, squinting. She reaches out to take it and pull it out of the wall with her supernatural strength.

Constance’s fingers close around the protruding brick, and with her enhanced strength, it slides free from the wall with surprising ease – as if it were never truly mortared in place. Behind it, a small rectangular cavity is revealed, just large enough to hold a leather-bound notebook and what appears to be a brass calculating device with intricate gears and dials.

The notebook’s cover is embossed with “Dr. M. Ashworth – Temporal Mathematics Research – 1924” in faded gold lettering. As Constance lifts it from its hiding place, the pages fall open to reveal dense mathematical equations written in a precise, feminine hand. Many of the calculations are complete, but the final page shows an equation that cuts off mid-formula, ending abruptly with what looks like a drop of something dark staining the paper.

The brass calculator is tarnished with age, its mechanisms partially seized. Several of the numbered dials appear to be stuck, and one of the calculation wheels has a hairline crack running through it.

The phosphorescent glow from the brick cavity begins to fade, but as it does, the temperature in the alley seems to drop noticeably. The shadows deepen, and somewhere in the distance, a clock tower begins to chime – once, twice, three times… but the sound seems wrong somehow, distorted, as if echoing from a great distance or perhaps a different time entirely.

The humming starts again, closer now, more insistent.

Constance sighs as she inspects the calculator, trying to do what she can to fix the most obvious signs of damage before she squints over the calculations in the book. She runs them through the calculator, trying to cause a reaction.

temperature readings, angular measurements, and something labeled “cardiac resonance frequency.“

As she puzzles over these missing elements, the humming grows louder and more urgent. The phosphorescent glow returns to the brick cavity, pulsing faster now. The shadows around her seem to shift independently of the lamplight above, and she catches glimpses of that figure in the university coat moving just beyond her vision.

Then, abruptly, everything stops. The humming cuts off mid-note, the glow vanishes, and the world seems to hold its breath for a moment before–

The sound of footsteps echoes from the far end of the alley once again.

Constance exhales. “I hope I’m not stuck in a time loop again,” she frets, as she tests the beating of her heart with her hand while the other holds the calculator out towards the far end of the alley, the woman approaching andl ooking for any sign of the spectre.

“1.618… 2.718… 3.141…” – mathematical constants woven together in an increasingly complex melody.

The figure in the university coat appears in the lamplight again, clearer this time. It’s a woman with short, bobbed hair typical of the 1920s, her face pale and drawn with concentration. She moves with purpose toward the exact spot where Constance stands, but seems unaware of her presence. The specter’s lips move silently, as if reciting calculations, and her eyes are fixed on something only she can see.

As the phantom woman reaches the area near the brick cavity, she suddenly stops and looks up with an expression of shock and terror. Her mouth opens in a silent scream before she dissolves into shadow.

The brick begins to glow again, pulsing in rhythm with Constance’s heartbeat. The temperature drops further, and frost begins to form on the mortar between the stones.

Constance asks, “Hello? Ms. Ashworth? What the hell happened to you?”, she sighs. She swivels, trying to discern what fate had befallen her – and why she felt the book and the calculator were important to stop it.

The specter of Dr. Ashworth doesn’t respond to Constance’s words, but as she speaks the name aloud, the air in the alley seems to thicken. The humming stops abruptly, replaced by a different sound – a man’s voice, harsh and angry, echoing from somewhere deeper in the shadows.

“The research is mine, Miriam! You cannot publish what belongs to me!“

A second figure begins to materialize near the far wall – taller, broader, wearing a dark overcoat. This spirit moves with malevolent purpose, and unlike Dr. Ashworth’s phantom, his eyes fix directly on Constance with unmistakable hostility.

“Who dares interfere?” the male spirit snarls, his form becoming more solid with each word. “The equation must not be completed!“

As he speaks, the brass calculator in Constance’s hands grows ice-cold, and several of its gears begin to turn on their own, clicking ominously. The notebook’s pages flutter as if caught in an unfelt wind, and the incomplete equation on the final page begins to glow with the same phosphorescent light as the brick cavity.

The temperature plummets further. Constance’s breath now mists in the suddenly frigid air.

Constance winces, shivering. “Shouldn’t you want it completed if it’s mostly yours?”, she asks, pensively. Her hand goes to the hilt of her weapon cautiously. “What’s so dangerous about this equation?”

“The observer effect – but what if the observer refuses to let go?“

The phosphorescent glow intensifies, and suddenly the loop snaps back to the beginning. Footsteps echo from the far end of the alley once more.

Constance shrugs. “Then I guess it’d be safest if it was destroyed..” She gets a lighter from her pocket and holds it to the book, threatening to flick it on and let the fires consume the journal.

72 beats per minute – Constance’s own pulse rate.

Dr. Ashworth’s spirit looks directly at her with pleading eyes. “Complete the equation! It’s the only way to break what he created when he murdered me!“

Constance stares at her, dumbly. “You think I’m smart enough to do temporal mathematics??”

the current temperature , the angle of the lamp’s shadow , and the heartbeat count .

The brass calculator, despite its damage, only needs these basic inputs fed into its mechanism while someone hums the mathematical sequence Dr. Ashworth was reciting when she died.

Constance follows the instructions, inputting the temperature, the angle, and the heartbeat count of 72.

the equation requires both the mechanical calculation AND the vocal component – the mathematical humming that Dr. Ashworth was performing when she was murdered. The collaborative consciousness she mentioned needs both elements working in harmony.

The phosphorescent glow pulses more urgently now, and frost continues to spread across the alley walls.

Constance is particularly bad at humming, but gives it her best go.

Constance’s off-key attempt at the mathematical sequence causes the brass calculator to emit a discordant grinding sound. The gears seize up completely, and sparks of phosphorescent light flicker erratically around the device. Dr. Ashworth’s spirit shakes her head frantically.

“The resonance frequency must be precise!” she calls out desperately. “The mathematical constants – 1.618, 2.718, 3.141 – they must harmonize with the calculation!“

Professor Blackwood’s malevolent laughter echoes through the alley. “You cannot complete what requires true understanding! The equation will remain forever broken!“

The temperature drops even further, and ice begins forming on the cobblestones. The calculator’s damaged mechanisms strain against the incorrect input, threatening to break entirely. Through the growing frost, Constance can see that the loop is approaching its end – the brick cavity beginning to glow more intensely.

Time is running short, and her imprecise humming has damaged the delicate brass mechanism further. One of the calculation wheels now wobbles loosely on its axis.

Constance grimaces and exhales. She looks up a frequency generator on her phone, tunes it, and tries to play the machine-generated uhumming for the device.

31 AM – time moving forward at last.

The alley falls silent except for the gentle hum of air conditioning units and Constance’s own breathing.