You dress simply. Jeans, a dark sweater. Nothing that draws attention. After a century and a half, you've learned to move through the world like smoke — present, but unremarkable.

The town is smaller than you remember. Or maybe you just remember it through the haze of youth, through the filter of 1864 — lantern light and corsets and the sharp, sweet terror of being turned in a field under a full moon.

You step out onto the porch of the Mystic Falls Inn. The air smells of damp earth and early autumn. A few students hurry past with backpacks, laughing. A elderly woman walks a small dog across the street.

The Salvatore boarding house is a fifteen-minute walk through the historic district. You memorized the route last night from the hotel map. Past the square. Past the Grill. Past the old church where they'd held your funeral.

Your funeral. 1864.

You begin walking.