Seek the Magic in Every Story

One of the questions I’m asked most often is whether I outline my novels before I begin writing.

The answer is yes. At least, I try. I usually know where the story begins. I have a good idea where it’s headed. I even know many of the scenes I want to include along the way. Then something unexpected happens.

The characters decide they have other plans.

It may sound strange to anyone who has never written fiction, but writers often talk about their characters as though they are real people. That’s because, after spending months—or even years—with them, they begin to develop personalities of their own. They surprise us. They argue with us. Sometimes, they completely ignore us.

More than once, I’ve sat down at my computer fully intending to write one scene, only to watch a character say something I never expected. Suddenly, the conversation takes a different direction, a relationship changes, or an entirely new chapter is born. Those are some of my favorite writing days.

Nika, for example, has never been particularly interested in following my plans. She is fiercely independent, wonderfully stubborn, and rarely waits for permission to do anything. More than once, I thought she would choose the sensible path. Instead, she marched straight into trouble because that’s exactly who she is.

And the funny thing is…she was right. Had I forced her to behave differently, she would no longer have felt like Nika.

Eli surprised me in a different way. On the surface, he is composed, thoughtful, and every bit the gentleman. But beneath that calm exterior lies remarkable determination. There were moments when I expected him to step back, only to discover that his quiet strength was far greater than I had imagined.

Alex also had a habit of changing the rules. He often entered a scene intending to play a supporting role, only to take command before I realized what had happened. His loyalty, protectiveness, and unwavering sense of responsibility gave him a presence that simply couldn’t be ignored.

Then there is Elizabeth Rostoff.

She never argued with me. She simply smiled…and did exactly what she intended to do. I confess there were times when I wished she would make a kinder choice. I wanted her to show compassion, to soften, to surprise me. She never did. Because that wasn’t who she was.

As frustrating as it could be, I eventually realized something important. Characters don’t become memorable because they obey the author. They become memorable because they remain true to themselves. Perhaps that’s why readers often ask me whether my characters are real.

In a way, they are.

Not because they exist somewhere in the world, but because they become so vivid that they begin making decisions based on their own personalities rather than my outline. When that happens, writing becomes less like giving instructions and more like listening.

I know that may sound impossible. But every novelist I know has experienced it. Characters have a way of revealing themselves one conversation at a time. As authors, our job isn’t to control them.

It’s to pay attention.

And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Thank you for joining me behind the scenes of my writing process today. I’d love to know—have you ever read a book where a character felt so real that you forgot they were fictional? Those are the characters we never truly leave behind.

Until next time,

Happy reading,

Stella May

Have you ever picked up an old object and wondered where it had been? Who held it before you? What conversations did it witness? What secrets does it keep?

I’ve always believed that objects have stories to tell.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I enjoy writing historical fiction and time travel novels so much. While people come and go, certain things remain. They quietly survive the passing of years, carrying memories from one generation to the next.

A weathered photograph. A handwritten letter. A wedding ring. An old key. A grandfather clock.

None of these objects can speak. And yet, each has a story.

As an author, I often find that an object becomes much more than a simple detail in a scene. Sometimes it becomes the heart of the story itself. Take the grandfather clock in my Upon A Time series.

At first glance, it’s simply an elegant antique standing in the hallway of Coleman House. But it is also so much more. It marks the passage of time, guards old secrets, and ultimately becomes the gateway between centuries. Without it, Nika’s extraordinary journey would never begin.

Then there’s the key. A small, ordinary object. One that most of us wouldn’t think twice about. Yet in the right hands, a key can unlock far more than a door. It can open forgotten memories, impossible adventures, and entirely new lives.

In Rhapsody in Dreams, music itself becomes a kind of object of memory.

A handwritten manuscript. A melody. A piano.

These are tangible things, yet they carry emotions that words sometimes cannot express. A single piece of music has the power to awaken feelings buried deep within the heart.

The Rostoff Family Saga has its own silent storytellers as well.

Family photographs. Letters. Heirlooms passed from one generation to the next. Each reminds us that history isn’t made only by extraordinary events. It’s also preserved in the ordinary things we choose to keep.

Perhaps that’s why we treasure certain possessions, even when they have little monetary value. An old watch that belonged to a grandfather. A recipe written in a mother’s handwriting. A postcard tucked inside a favorite book. A faded ticket from a memorable journey.

To anyone else, they’re simply objects. To us, they’re pieces of our lives.

As writers, we’re fortunate. We have the privilege of giving those silent objects a voice. A key becomes the beginning of an adventure. A clock becomes the keeper of time. A melody becomes the language of love. A letter becomes the bridge between generations.

The object itself may be small. The story it carries can be enormous.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been drawn to stories that connect the past with the present. Because sometimes the most extraordinary journeys begin with the simplest things.

The next time you come across an old object—a pocket watch in an antique shop, a handwritten note tucked inside a book, or a key whose lock has long since been forgotten—pause for just a moment. Imagine the lives it has touched. Imagine the stories it could tell. You may discover that the greatest treasures are not the objects themselves… But the memories they continue to carry.

Until next time,

Happy reading,

Stella May

People often ask authors which character is their favorite to write. The answer usually surprises them.

It’s rarely the hero. Sometimes it’s the villain.

Not because we admire them, of course, but because creating a believable villain is one of the greatest challenges a writer can face. Heroes are often guided by love, hope, loyalty, and courage. Villains, on the other hand, force us to explore the darker corners of human nature—pride, jealousy, greed, fear, and the desperate need for control. They ask difficult questions. What makes an ordinary person cross a moral line?

At what point does ambition become obsession? Can love become possessiveness? Can pain become cruelty?

As a writer, I don’t believe villains wake up in the morning thinking, “Today I’ll become the bad guy.”

Like all of us, they believe they are justified. They make one choice. Then another. And before long, they’ve become someone capable of hurting the people around them without remorse.

Writing those moments can be surprisingly uncomfortable.

There were times while writing the Rostoff Family Saga when I found myself shaking my head at Elizabeth Rostoff. She is, without question, one of the most difficult characters I have ever written.

She manipulates. She deceives. She places her own desires above the happiness of those she claims to love.

More than once, I wanted to reach into the manuscript and tell her to stop. Of course, she never listened.

Because once characters become real, they begin making their own decisions. As strange as that may sound, many writers will understand exactly what I mean.

Elizabeth taught me something important. A memorable villain isn’t frightening because they are powerful.

They are frightening because they are believable.

History—and life itself—reminds us that the greatest harm is often caused not by monsters, but by ordinary people making selfish choices. That is what I wanted Elizabeth to represent. Not evil in its most dramatic form. But the quiet damage one person can inflict on an entire family when pride and self-interest replace compassion.

Ironically, writing a villain also made me appreciate my heroes even more. Without darkness, courage cannot shine. Without betrayal, forgiveness loses its meaning. Without obstacles, triumph feels unearned.

Every hero needs someone to challenge them. Every family saga needs conflict. Every great story needs a reason for readers to keep turning the pages.

In the end, I don’t write villains because I enjoy cruelty. I write them because they remind us why kindness matters. They make us appreciate honesty, loyalty, sacrifice, and love.

And perhaps that is the greatest purpose any villain can serve. They don’t teach us how to become better people. They remind us why we should.

Before I close, I’d like to share a small glimpse of Elizabeth Rostoff.

I won’t reveal too much—after all, every villain deserves to make their own first impression—but I hope this brief excerpt offers a window into the woman who challenged not only the Rostoff family, but me as an author.

Writing Elizabeth was never easy. There were days when I disliked every decision she made. There were moments when I wished she would choose compassion over manipulation, honesty over deception, love over control. But if she had, she wouldn’t have been Elizabeth. And perhaps that’s the greatest lesson she taught me.

As authors, we don’t get to choose only the characters we’d enjoy having over for dinner. We must also create the ones who make our heroes stronger, our readers angrier, and our stories impossible to forget.

So, I’d like to introduce you to one of the most unforgettable women I’ve ever written.

Excerpt from “New Dawn“

Her Grace, Princess Elizabeth, Elizaveta Andreevna Rostoff, sat in her favorite chair embroidered with Monarch’s golden lily, engrossed in a book. For a moment, Dmitry stood unnoticed and studied his aging mother.

At sixty-four, she was still beautiful with her thick white-silver hair cut in a stylish bob. His eyes traveled past the long column of her neck and stopped on her arresting face. Slashing cheekbones, high forehead, Greek nose.

She looked as if chiseled from a piece of marble, exquisite as it was cold. Regal was the only word to describe Her Grace Elizabeth.

Sensing intrusion, his mother sharply turned her head left and looked up. Straight at him. Her intense and brutally intelligent eyes held him captive. They always reminded him of a stormy sky—angry, cold, majestic.

“Hello, Mother.” Dmitry greeted her in Russian, for Elizabeth forbade any other language inside the house. Fluent in five—French, English, German, Italian and Spanish—Dmitry never heard her speak any other language except her native tongue in her domain. Her mausoleum.

“Hello, Dmitry,” Elizabeth replied in the frosty alto he loved and hated for as long as he could remember.

“I hope nothing’s wrong with the business?” she inquired dryly.

Oh, how predictable.

Dmitry barely controlled his disgust.

Business, her beloved company. It always comes first. Damn her.

Officially, Elizabeth retired from the family business several years ago after he took over Rostoff & Co. Correction—after she entrusted it to him with great reluctance and wariness. But Elizabeth was still the president, and she controlled the board of directors single-handedly and unquestionably, leaving her only son the chair and position of the CEO.

Although she preferred to live in her California manor, the headquarters of Rostoff & Co. were located in New York—Midtown Manhattan, to be precise—in the old building his grandfather bought and painstakingly rebuilt for the first store during The Roaring Twenties. Since then, it was expanded several times to accommodate the growing business enterprise soon to become a nationwide chain of jewelry stores. Rostoff’s gems, especially diamonds, were famous throughout the world, unrivaled by their beauty and value.

They were also the only thing Elizabeth loved and cared about with passion.

“Rest assured, Mother, your beloved business is all right.” More harsh and brusque than was permitted by Elizabeth’s rules, Dmitry’s reply triggered an immediate reaction. As two perfect brows raised, the color of her eyes deepened to the shade of pewter.

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me, Dmitry.” The ice in her voice may well have extinguished an inferno.

She looked at him pointedly, waiting for an apology. More than anything, he wanted to turn around and leave in silent protest. But such a behavior was adolescent rebellion, silly and pointless. Dmitry never resorted to it, even in his early teenage years. He wasn’t about to start now.

After all, who knew Elizabeth better than he did? He taught himself early on to never expect from her what she was unable to give, simple warmth and compassion.

“Forgive me, Mother,” he said dryly. “It was rude of me.”

Elizabeth nodded regally. She held out her hand, queen to a peasant. Dmitry bent forward and gingerly kissed it. As soon as his lips touched her skin, she withdrew her fingers. She didn’t like to be touched by anybody, even her own son. As if such an act as physical contact with another body might sully her perfection.

Dmitry wondered how she permitted her husband to be intimate with her and touch her long enough to conceive him. She undoubtedly hated every second. And once again, he wondered if his mother’s obsession with power and her passion for precious stones replaced in her heart the most natural needs. And if it was enough.

“Now, explain your sudden request for this late meeting.” Elizabeth’s calm, detached voice interrupted his musings.

“I have some news,” Dmitry replied calmly and detached. He was his mother’s son, after all.

“Sit,” Elizabeth ordered, pointing to a chair nearby, directly opposite her own.

Dmitry sat, carefully adjusting his tailored trousers, and holding his back straight and his head high. He looked at Elizabeth’s classically beautiful face and into her smoky eyes, and winced inwardly because he realized revealing his secret about Svetlana to her was simply unbearable, like stripping naked before her eyes. Only he wouldn’t be stripping his body, but his soul. And Dmitry hated that with every fiber of his being.

If not for this damned baby, he thought bitterly, his hate for this tiny unwelcome intruder increasing tenfold. He preferred to grieve in silence, to mourn the woman he loved in the sanctuary of his own home, alone. But no, Dmitry fumed impotently, as he was cheated out of even this small luxury, and all because of the baby. This nameless, useless, five-days-old baby.

“Mother, I’m afraid what I’m going to tell you will be an unpleasant surprise.”

Elizabeth didn’t react at all, only kept staring at him, her gunmetal-gray eyes cold and sharp.

He counted ten seconds then said, “Do you remember three years ago when I flew to Moscow to clean up the mess with customs?”

She nodded, her face remaining emotionless.

Dmitry pressed his lips tight before continuing, “I met a woman.” His voice betrayed him, catching on the last word. He fell silent, avoiding her face and those brutal eyes of hers. “She…I…”

“Stop mumbling like an imbecile, Dmitry. You met a woman, you had an affair. At least be man enough to say it,” Elizabeth hissed through her perfect teeth, her distaste quite apparent.

Dmitry jerked back as if she had slapped his face.

“Svetlana Zakharova,” she continued in a dry, almost bored voice. “Ballerina, born December tenth, nineteen sixty-five in Moscow, orphaned two years later. Entered Moscow Ballet Academy on special scholarship for poor gifted children in nineteen seventy-three. Prima ballerina of The Bolshoi Theatre since nineteen eighty.” Elizabeth stated the facts ruthlessly, calmly, brutally.

Shocked, Dmitry looked at her in horrified silence. Each and every word out of her mouth was another nail hammered into the coffin of his disillusionment. Heat crawled up his neck. He felt stupid, mortified.

“You knew? All this time—”

“Of course I knew.” She snorted but managed to do it almost delicately, for snorting was considered beneath her aristocratic statue and very unladylike. “Do you think I’m a fool? I knew all along about—”

“Don’t,” Dmitry’s cut her off with just one word. Softly, almost inaudibly.

He kept his eyes on her face that suddenly was bleached of any color. After a long, charged moment, Elizabeth took a deep breath and visibly recovered.

Took you long enough, Mother.

Was it small of him to draw satisfaction from it? He shrugged inwardly.

To hell with it.

 “All right.” She bowed out semi-graciously. “I won’t say anything more. But it has to stop, Dmitry. Immediately. It went on for too long. May I remind you, in case you forgot, that you are a married man? You have a son, for goodness’ sake.” Then she stated coldly, with brutal finality, “Three years should be enough.”

Dmitry exploded. “How would you know?!”

He was so angry he forgot the cardinal rule of Elizabeth’s household and slid from Russian into English.

“You never loved anybody in your life. I bet you never lost your calm demeanor, not to mention your sense.”

He rose from his chair and towered over her, his hands white knuckled.

“Have you ever felt so happy, so overwhelmed, so gloriously in love that nothing mattered except being together? Have you ever had the absolute knowledge of the one and only person created by God just for you? Have you wished to spend all your days and nights together and even that wouldn’t be long enough?” His voice rose to a shout and he failed to stop himself. “You’ve never known what passion is, have you, Mother? You never lost yourself or your precious self-control in the arms of a lover even for a split second. Sometimes I wonder if you’re human at all.”

A sharp wince contorted her face.

Too close to the truth?

“That’s enough,” she snapped in English, her voice a harsh whisper.

Thank you for stepping behind the scenes with me today.

Writing villains may be one of the hardest parts of storytelling, but it has also taught me that even the darkest characters can illuminate the very best qualities of the heroes who stand against them.

Until next time,

Happy reading,

Stella May

There is something wonderfully satisfying about typing the words “The End.”

For a brief moment, it feels as though you’ve reached the finish line. The story is complete. The journey is over. Or so you think. The truth is, “The End” is rarely the end of anything. In many ways, it’s the beginning.

When I finish writing a novel, I usually set it aside for a little while. After spending months—or sometimes years—with the same characters, I need a bit of distance before I can read the story with fresh eyes.

Then comes the rewriting.

I read every chapter again, searching for places where a conversation could be stronger, a description more vivid, or an emotional moment more powerful. Sometimes I discover a tiny detail in chapter three that changes something in chapter twenty-five. Sometimes an entire scene needs to be rewritten because I realize the characters have grown in a different direction.

Writing a book isn’t just creating a story. It’s discovering the best way to tell it. Once the manuscript is polished, another adventure begins.

There are editors, proofreaders, cover designs, formatting, and countless decisions that readers rarely see. Choosing a title, selecting keywords, writing a book description, preparing the interior, and making sure everything is ready for publication all become part of the journey.

And then comes one of my favorite moments… Holding the finished book for the very first time. No matter how many books I’ve written, that feeling never grows old. Seeing months—or years—of work transformed into something I can hold in my hands is both humbling and deeply rewarding.

But even then, the story continues.

A book finds its readers one person at a time. Someone discovers it on a bookstore shelf. Someone downloads it onto an e-reader. Someone reads a single page before bed and promises themselves, “Just one more chapter.”

Eventually, a reader laughs at a scene I loved writing. Another sheds a tear over a character I came to love.

Someone else sends me a message to say that one of my books stayed with them long after they turned the final page. Those moments remind me why I became a writer.

Lately, I’ve been experiencing another chapter in that journey—translating my stories into another language.

Returning to ‘Til Time Do Us Part and helping Nika, Eli, Abby, and the rest of the Coleman family find their voices in Russian has reminded me that stories never truly stand still. They continue to grow, evolve, and reach new readers in ways I never imagined when I first wrote those opening chapters. Perhaps that’s the greatest surprise of all.

Authors may write “The End.” Readers write everything that comes after.

Every reader brings a different perspective, imagines the characters a little differently, and carries a unique part of the story with them. In that sense, a novel is never really finished. It simply begins a new life in someone else’s imagination. And I think that’s one of the greatest gifts storytelling has to offer.

Thank you for joining me behind the scenes of my writing journey.

Whether you’ve read one of my books or are just discovering my stories, thank you for becoming part of what happens after “The End.”

Until next time,

Happy reading,

Stella May

As writers, we spend months—sometimes years—bringing a story to life.

We choose every word carefully. We shape each sentence until it sounds exactly the way we imagined. We get to know our characters so well that they begin to feel like old friends. Then one day, something remarkable happens. The story begins speaking another language.

That’s exactly where I find myself now as I translate my novel ‘Til Time Do Us Part into Russian.

Many people think translation is simply replacing one word with another. It isn’t. Translation is storytelling all over again.

Every language has its own rhythm, personality, and way of expressing emotion. A phrase that sounds perfectly natural in English may feel awkward or lose its meaning when translated literally. Sometimes a joke doesn’t work. Sometimes an expression has no equivalent. Sometimes a single sentence can take an hour to rewrite because it has to sound as though it was written in that language from the very beginning.

I’ve discovered that translation requires me to become both the author and the editor all over again. I revisit every chapter. Every conversation. Every description. And every emotion.

One of the biggest challenges has been preserving the personalities of my characters.

Nika is direct, determined, and wonderfully stubborn. Eli speaks with the manners and elegance of a gentleman from the early twentieth century. Mrs. Smith has a voice unlike anyone else. Abby sees the world through the eyes of an artist.

Each of them deserves to sound authentic—not only in English but in Russian as well.

Sometimes that means choosing a completely different sentence to convey exactly the same feeling.

I’ve also found myself researching historical expressions, reconsidering names, and even debating the smallest details. Should a particular phrase sound formal or conversational? Which version best captures the warmth, humor, or tension of the original scene?

These questions remind me that language is about far more than words.

It’s about emotion. It’s about culture. It’s about making readers feel as though the story belongs to them.

Perhaps my favorite part of the process has been rediscovering my own novel.

When I first wrote ‘Til Time Do Us Part, I knew every twist and every chapter by heart. Yet translating it has allowed me to experience the story from a completely different perspective.

I’ve smiled at scenes I had almost forgotten. I’ve polished passages that could be even stronger. I’ve fallen in love with my characters all over again. In many ways, translating a book feels like opening the front door of your home to new friends from another part of the world.

The house is the same. The people are the same. But now everyone can gather around the same table and share the same story. And I think that’s one of the greatest joys of being an author.

Stories have always brought people together. Language simply gives them another way to find each other.

Thank you for joining me on this exciting journey.

I can’t wait to introduce Nika, Eli, Abby, and the rest of the Coleman family to a whole new group of readers.

Until next time,

Happy reading,

Stella May

People often ask me why my books have hopeful endings. The answer is simple.

Because life has taught me that hope is never something we stumble upon. It is something we choose.

When I first began writing, I thought stories were about adventures, mysteries, romance, and unforgettable characters. And they are. But after writing book after book, I realized something surprising.

Every story I write is, at its heart, about hope.

Hope is what keeps Nika searching for a way home when every door seems closed.

It is what gives Eli the courage to trust his heart despite the risks.

It is what helps the Rostoff family rebuild after unimaginable loss.

It is what allows Kira and Al in Rhapsody in Dreams to keep finding each other across lifetimes.

Different characters. Different centuries. Different circumstances.

The same quiet belief that tomorrow can be better than today.

Writing has also taught me something about people.

Readers don’t fall in love with perfect characters. They fall in love with people who struggle, who fail, who doubt themselves, and who find the strength to stand up one more time. Perhaps that’s because all of us recognize a little of ourselves in those moments.

Life rarely unfolds the way we expect. Dreams change. Plans fall apart. Hearts break.

And yet, somehow, we continue. Hope doesn’t erase sorrow. It doesn’t undo mistakes or make difficult days disappear. Instead, hope whispers that this chapter isn’t the end of the story.

As an author, I spend my days creating fictional worlds, but writing has changed the way I look at the real one. It has reminded me that every person carries a story we know nothing about. Every smile may hide a struggle.

Every stranger may be fighting a battle we cannot see. And every ending may simply be the beginning of something unexpected. Perhaps that is why I continue to write. Not because I have all the answers, but because stories remind us that there is always another page to turn.

Another sunrise. Another opportunity. Another chance to begin again.

If there is one lesson writing has taught me, it is this: Hope is not found in perfect circumstances. It is found in ordinary people who choose kindness over bitterness, courage over fear, and love over despair. Those are the stories I want to tell. And, perhaps, those are the stories we all need from time to time.

Thank you for spending a few moments with me today. I hope that wherever you are, and whatever chapter of life you find yourself in, you remember that your story is still being written.

The next page may hold something wonderful.

Until next time,

Happy reading,

Stella May

Where do stories come from?

As writers, we are asked this question often, and the truth is that inspiration can come from the strangest places—a song, a dream, a fleeting thought, or a question that simply refuses to let go.

For me, Rhapsody in Dreams began with one question:

What if two souls were given seven chances to find each other—and one final chance to get it right?

That simple idea stayed with me.

I’ve always been fascinated by history and by the thought that love might transcend time itself. What if we don’t meet certain people by accident? What if some connections are so profound, so enduring, that they follow us from one lifetime to the next?

Those questions eventually gave birth to Kira and Al Gabriel.

Kira is a trauma surgeon who has spent years protecting herself from pain and loss. Al Gabriel is a gifted pianist and composer whose music touches something deep within her soul. Yet what neither of them realizes at first is that their story began centuries ago.

Long before modern-day St. Augustine. Long before concert halls and operating rooms. Their souls have crossed paths again and again throughout history.

Ancient Greece. The age of the Vikings. Seventeenth-century Venice. Revolutionary Russia.

And several other lives lost to memory and time.

In each lifetime, something kept them apart. Different circumstances. Different choices. Different tragedies.

But love, it seems, is remarkably persistent.

As I wrote the story, I became fascinated not only by romance but by memory itself. Why are we drawn to certain places we have never visited? Why do some people feel strangely familiar from the very first moment we meet them? Why do certain pieces of music move us to tears without explanation?

I don’t pretend to have the answers.

But I love asking the questions.

Music became another source of inspiration. I’ve always believed that music has a way of reaching places words cannot. A melody can awaken emotions, memories, and dreams we didn’t know we possessed. It seemed fitting that Al would express himself through music and that one composition—his “Rhapsody”—would become the key that unlocks forgotten memories.

At its heart, Rhapsody in Dreams is about hope.

It is about second chances.

It is about the belief that love is stronger than fear, stronger than loss, and perhaps even stronger than time itself.

And maybe that’s why I love this story so much.

Because while I may never know whether souls truly meet again across centuries, I like to believe that some bonds are simply too beautiful to be broken.

Perhaps we all carry echoes of forgotten dreams.

And perhaps, somewhere deep inside, our hearts remember what our minds have forgotten.

Thank you for taking this journey with me.

And now I’d love to ask you a question:

Do you believe some people are meant to find each other—no matter how much time passes?

Happy reading,

Stella May

“Rhapsody In Dreams”

Excerpt

The melody, played by a solo violin, started at a low register, and then flew up and trembled at a peak. Kira immediately recognized the main theme of The Wings.

Soon, the oboe and clarinet joined in, adding their unique timbres to the harmony. The other instruments started to join too, one by one, quietly, almost hesitantly, like murmuring voices, and soon the whole orchestra was engaged, playing like one huge instrument, led by a solo violin.

It bore the distinct impression of a storyteller’s voice who started to “unveil” a magical tale.

But the most mesmerizing effect was made by the projection screens: their silvery surfaces started to shift and whirl ominously; globs of black ink, as if dropped by an invisible hand, started slowly to transform into the letters…

At first, Kira was too stunned to grasp the meaning of the spelled words. But soon she, as everyone else, was following the dark droplets anxiously, reading the six words—six names—repeatedly. Again and again it spelled: Keara. Chara. Cora. Corinne. Katia. Kara.

And the last, the seventh name—Kira—was pulsing, glowing purely white in huge capital letters on the black screen.

The melody of The Wings was trembling, gaining in volume, almost crying like a child…

Kira sucked in her breath, biting her lip until she felt the metallic taste of blood in her mouth.

The music, multi-rhythmic and polyphonic, wild and uncivilized, rose to a deafening crescendo, and then abruptly fell into nothing.

The first death.

Kira almost fainted.

The ominous tremolo of the drums brought her back and flung her headfirst into the sinuous solo of the harp. The melody was exotic, undoubtedly erotic, unapologetically sensuous. It seduced like the undulating body of a dancing slave girl, pleasing her master. He liked it best when she danced naked.

Kira shuddered, suddenly cold and shivering. The dance went on and on, increasing in tempo, and ended suddenly in a low sigh of strings and a quick passage of a flute, like a laughter that was cut short by a kiss…or knife.

The second death.

And all the while, those names on the screens were transforming from the dark drops, fluidly emerging, shimmering, mesmerizing…

And the violin continued its storytelling, blending the melody of The Wings into the different themes, camouflaging it under many different rhythms and styles, but keeping it, nonetheless, independently separate…

By the time of Katia’s story (the fifth one), with the lonely clarinet playing the harmonious melody undoubtedly Slavic in nature, Kira was barely holding it together.

The violin hesitantly intervened into the clarinet’s narrative, gently pushing it out of the picture. The Wings mesmerizing theme continued its magical tale.

Kira braced herself. She knew what to expect, what was coming, but even several millennia of knowledge and memories weren’t able to prepare her. The bile rose to her throat, but she ignored it.

When finally, it came to the last—Cora’s—story, she shut her eyes and pressed the palms of hands to her ears to ward off the horror of the upcoming tragedy. But the music reached her, muted and distorted, even through the physical barrier of skin, blood, and bone. It cut deep into her heart, carving a hole. Kira was shaking uncontrollably.

Six tales in all, six women, six tragedies.

Six deaths.

It was so vivid, so breathtakingly, staggeringly, brutally real…

She saw herself—her six different selves—like on a screen; instead of the names, those cursed projection screens were transmitting live pictures, and all of them of her.

It was so darn real that Kira could smell the aromas and stenches and feel the elements (sun, rain, breeze); she could hear and understand different languages and dialects, some of which were lost to the modern world.

He recreated all of it and made her relive—refeel—it all over again. Damn him.

Six love stories. Six triumphs. Six betrayals.

And six deaths.

By the time Rhapsody in Dreams had finally ended, with the melody of The Wings trembling and then vanishing into the thin air, Kira felt ugly. Mutilated. Violated.

Like when she was six, in that crumbled house in Miami, half-buried under the rubble and covered with ashes and blood, she felt small and terrified, helpless and alone.

She felt exposed, naked, and vulnerable.

She felt ancient, like the weight of the six centuries was pressing on her shoulders.

She could barely breathe. She was barely alive.

The only thing that kept her from crumbling was her rage. It vibrated within her, hot and furious, setting her blood on boil.

The silence was absolute. On all three screens, the single word—her name—was frozen, the stark white letters on a dead black surface. The effect seemed sinister, at least to her.

Slowly, Kira rose to her feet.

As a writer of time travel stories, I get asked one question more than almost any other:

“If you could travel anywhere in time, where would you go?”

The truth is, I don’t have just one answer.

History has always fascinated me. Every century carries its own beauty, mysteries, triumphs, and tragedies. If time travel were possible, I suspect I would spend a lifetime exploring—and still never see enough.

Ancient Greece

I’ve always been captivated by Ancient Greece. To walk through Athens at the height of its glory, to hear philosophers debating ideas that still influence us today, and to witness the birth of democracy and art firsthand would be extraordinary.

I imagine bustling marketplaces, marble temples gleaming under the Mediterranean sun, and conversations that changed the course of history.

Venice in the Seventeenth Century

There’s something magical about old Venice.

I would love to stroll along narrow streets lit by lanterns, listen to music drifting from open windows, and perhaps attend a masquerade ball. Venice seems to exist halfway between reality and a dream—a place built for romance and mystery.

No wonder it often finds its way into my stories.

America in 1909

If you’ve read my Upon A Time series, this choice won’t surprise you.

The early twentieth century fascinates me. It was an era balanced between old traditions and the modern world that was just beginning to emerge. Horse-drawn carriages shared the roads with automobiles. Electricity was changing daily life. Society itself stood on the edge of transformation.

And I must admit, I would love to spend an afternoon wandering through Coleman House, listening to the grandfather clock tick and sharing tea with Eli, Abby, and Mrs. Smith.

The 1960s

The music, fashion, and spirit of change make the 1960s irresistible.

I imagine jazz clubs, bookstores, handwritten letters, and evenings filled with lively conversation. It was a decade full of hope, creativity, and endless possibilities.

The Future

As fascinating as the past may be, part of me is equally curious about the future.

What will the world look like a hundred years from now? Will diseases that trouble us today become distant memories? Will humanity explore distant planets? Will artificial intelligence change our lives in ways we cannot yet imagine?

Perhaps future generations will look back on our own era with the same fascination we feel when studying history.

But Only for a Visit

As much as I love history, I think I would choose to visit rather than stay.

Every time period has its hardships. We often romanticize the past and forget that people lived through wars, illnesses, and countless challenges. Modern conveniences, medicine, and communication are gifts we sometimes take for granted.

So if I were fortunate enough to travel through time, I would happily explore, marvel, and gather stories.

But eventually, I would come home.

Because no matter what century we dream about, there is something comforting about returning to the people we love and the life we’ve built.

And perhaps that’s why I write time travel stories.

They allow me to visit the past whenever I wish—without ever leaving home.

What about you?

If you could visit any time period in history, where would you go?

I’d love to hear your answer.

Happy reading,

Stella May

“A father is the one friend upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of need, when all else fails, we remember him upon whose knees we sat when children, and who soothed our sorrows; and even though he may be unable to assist us, his mere presence serves to comfort and strengthen us.” —Émile Gaboriau