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Sand trails Arthur in cakey footprints, heedless of the arbitrary threshold between beach and polished marble. He breathes quietly, if not as slowly as he'd like; even without calling out, Arthur knows the high museum ceilings would over-amplify his voice. Or a gunshot.
"Hello."
Whipping around, Arthur searches the features past the tip of his Beretta: dark skin, pepper-gray hair, heavy-set. All unfamiliar, but the man doesn't flinch at the weapon in his face, so Arthur says, "Eames?"
"Not quite."
It's inscrutable, but Arthur lowers the gun nonetheless. In that instant, the man turns, disappearing down a corridor before Arthur regains the presence of mind to follow.
When he rounds the corner, he does not find the person he's supposed to be tailing, but rather a cavernous hall of antiquities. They feel at home in the space—hand-painted pottery, stone statues, intricate tapestries—except that there are no placards, no stanchions marking anything off-limits. The urge to reach out and touch is overwhelming.
"Come along."
Both the voice and the face are entirely new, but Arthur knows, somehow, it's him. This version is pale and wiry, middle-aged, handsome in a time-anchored way. For the first time, Arthur notes the finely-embroidered jacket, unmistakably aristocratic.
"I expect you're in a hurry," the man says mildly, as if in apology for his terseness.
Arthur ducks his head diffidently, but says nothing. To keep pace, he fixes his eyes resolutely forward, even as the sprawling collection of ornate china and gold-plated sculptures call to him. It must be worth a fortune, in history as much as money. He forces himself briskly through another set of doors.
"Sorry," pants the small boy that appears at his elbow, breathless in his hurry to keep up on shoeless feet. Arthur shortens his own steps, melancholy in a way he can't articulate.
The halls stretch impossibly onward, teeming with artifacts that should feel anachronistic, together, but don't. An old treadle sewing machine, Dick-and-Jane primers, tattered flags, a CRT television. Arthur understands, all too easily, how someone could get lost here.
When they land at the final corridor, it's so abrupt that Arthur stumbles to a halt.
"There we go," declares the young woman at his side, tossing feathery blonde hair over her shoulder.
"Thank you," Arthur says, at a loss for anything else. He rocks on his heels, inexplicably reluctant to leave her here. She offers a knowing, gloss-lacquered smile, and takes the hand from which his gun has vanished.
"We'll see you again," she says, winking. "We always do."
Arthur nods and, a little recklessly, kisses her palm.
As he steps through, he doesn't need the plethora of mirrors and beautifully-rendered oil portraits to know he's arrived.
"Hi," he says to the man in the high-backed chair. The hand he holds, this time, is thick and callused, but feels just the same.
"Oh," says Eames—his Eames—blinking up at him. Surprised, but not, as though Arthur had only been in the other room. "There you are."