1899

I know there are skeptics who will not believe the narrative I am about to present—one without intended indiscretion. What I experienced was surreal in nature and unfathomable in essence—yet it was real. I have no logical explanation to offer, only my testimony.

Even now, after all the time that has passed since my inexplicable return to the present century, I remember every detail as though it were etched permanently in my mind—and in my journal. How I managed to transcend the established boundary of time remains a mystery that only the elaboration of science might one day resolve.

There are endless secrets in life that elude us, mysteries never fully revealed. How could a man from the 21st century return to the 19th century as a time traveler? I have always considered myself a polymath and lucid expositor of innovative ideas, yet the phenomenon I encountered was unparalleled in its occurrence and momentous in its effect.

My name is William Tasker, a renowned writer of mystery novels. It all began one early morning during the week as I casually strolled down North Street in Boston. I entered a quaint bookstore and soon after walked toward North Square, at the intersection of North Garden Court and Sun Court Streets.

As I passed through the area, I was momentarily blinded by a flash of light—a luminescent brilliance that lasted only seconds. I had forgotten an item back at the bookstore and turned to retrieve it, only to find that the bookstore had vanished. In its place stood an establishment unknown to me: the Burham Inn.

That was the first of many bewildering surprises. The surrounding brick buildings were shabby tenements, the streetlight on the corner oddly tall. The nearby stores were unrecognizable. But what stunned me most was the attire of the people—they were dressed in unmistakably late 19th-century Victorian clothing.

A herdic carriage drawn by a horse passed me by. These vehicles, predecessors of modern taxicabs, were things I had only read about. Was I dreaming? Was this an elaborate manifestation of my subconscious? I would soon realize that I was not hallucinating—nor was I asleep. I was standing in North Square, in the year 1899.

Strangely, I too was dressed in period-appropriate clothing: a morning suit with a waistline seam and cutaway front, dark trousers, polished shoes, a blue tie over a white shirt, and a bowler hat. On my finger was a garnet men’s ring set in gold, and my Apple phone had transformed into a vintage gold pocket watch.

A stranger in a fedora hat and lounge suit noticed my dazed demeanor and approached. When I asked him the year, he paused—likely assuming I was drunk or mad—then replied, “It’s 1899.” I stared at him in disbelief.

Nearby, a newsboy in a Gatsby cap was selling newspapers. He introduced himself as a “newsie”—a term I had never encountered before. Dressed in a jacket and knickerbockers buckled below the knee, he handed me a copy of The Boston Globe. The headline confirmed the impossible truth: I was in the year 1899.

Unbeknownst to me, I had crossed through a temporal slit that had transported me to the distant past. At the time, I had no notion of what had happened—only that the surroundings were unmistakably authentic. The notabilia of the era were everywhere.

The North End of Boston, where I now stood, had a historical reputation for illicit activities. Hoping to find answers, I entered a nearby tavern called MacNamara. A barmaid approached and asked what I wanted to drink. Still confused, I asked her the name of the city. She seemed baffled by my odd demeanor but responded, “Boston. Year’s 1899.”

As I left the tavern, a woman in a provocative red dress addressed me, introducing herself as a “jilt”—a prostitute. In my time, North Street was known for strip clubs, but jilt shops and brothels, with prostitutes so overt in their solicitation, were foreign to me.

Adjacent to these establishments were burlesque vaudevilles and a disturbing spectacle known as rat-baiting—an arena where spectators placed wagers on how quickly a dog could kill captive rats. I had heard of cockfighting, but this was equally barbaric.

The area was clearly one of immigrants and low-income residents, as I had read about in historical texts. As a man from a middle-class upbringing, I sympathized with their plight. I was in the city of my birth, yet not the Boston I knew.

The thought of returning home struck me. I made my way to Blackstone Street, where I lived. My Victorian home still stood, familiar and intact. Yet as I knocked on the front door, a woman I did not recognize answered.

She was dressed in the finest fashion of the time—straw boater hat with bonnet, silhouette dress with puffed shoulders, bell-shaped skirt, bodice with lace trimmings. Her hair was neatly arranged in chignons and soft curls, adorned with ribbons and flowers.

Before I could introduce myself properly, she asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I am William Tasker. Forgive me, but how long have you lived here?”

“I’ve lived here for several years. Were you the former proprietor? I don’t quite understand.”

Without thinking, I replied, “Yes, I was.”

She seemed unsure but remained polite. “Forgive me, sir, but I have an appointment to attend. Perhaps another day?”

“Of course. I understand completely.”

She smiled warmly. “You’re welcome to return another time. I’d love to speak more about the house. My name is Jane Reeves.”

“I’d like that,” I replied.

As I walked away, I felt a strange sense of familiarity with her, as if we had known each other in another life. I was at my home, yet a stranger to it. How long would I remain trapped in this bygone century? Was I a prisoner—or was there something greater I was meant to witness or understand?

I wandered the familiar streets, now unrecognizable in time. Familiar shops were replaced by antiquated establishments. I speculated about what could have caused my journey—was it a magnetic field? A portal? But what kind?

Perhaps the answer lay in the local library, which thankfully still stood. Its structure was largely the same, save for some additions. Inside, however, there were no computers—only manual catalogues.

I searched for any information relating to physics. Eventually, I found a book discussing “slits of time” induced by wave patterns. It referenced an 1801 experiment by Thomas Young, demonstrating that light could act as both particle and wave—one of the foundations of quantum mechanics.

Could the slit I had passed through be linked to this dual nature of light and time? In the double-slit experiment, light splits into two waves that interfere as they pass through slits—reforming into observable patterns on the other side. If light could behave this way, perhaps time itself could too.

Electrons, when observed, seem to “choose” their path—traveling back in time to present themselves as particles rather than waves. Could I have done something similar without realizing?

I couldn’t say for certain. I needed more evidence—something tangible to connect this theory to my lived experience. I was a devoted exponent of science and physics, but no expert. My ideas were only suppositions, struggling for coherence against an extraordinary reality.

If my journey was not unprecedented, then what was it? I lacked the knowledge to even define it. Yet I was determined to seek an answer beyond speculation. A truth must exist, waiting to be revealed behind this phenomenon.

I did not know if the slits in time were cyclical. The variable nature of such a possibility, as I had experienced, seemed to be shared by only a few. I was among those fortunate few who had ventured into a time portal—a vortex that transported me precisely to the year 1899.

After leaving the public library, I began walking. I reached Tremont Street, where trams rode over black and white lined tracks running from the Public Garden through Boylston Street, Park Street, North Street, Congress Street, and Commercial Street.

Somehow, the money I carried—and all my personal items—had been transformed to fit the era. I had in my possession currency from the late 19th century. I boarded a tram and traveled to Blackstone Street, where I stopped to observe the brick façades of the old Ochtorlony and Tremere houses.

It was astounding to witness the dramatic change between centuries. Yet, I found myself compelled to return to the one place that had always made me feel secure—my home. The problem was that it was already occupied by someone else.

Before I dared return there, I had to consider where I would stay in the meantime. I couldn't legally evict the current occupant—she was the rightful owner in 1899. No one would believe I had time-traveled from the 21st century.

I found lodging in a modest hotel near the house. It was affordable and not far from Blackstone Street. Still, nothing was certain. I was trapped in the 19th century. I was reluctant to accept the grim reality that I might be forever lost in this unfolding era, a hostage to time. Who could I turn to for help, when everyone I knew hadn’t even been born yet?

That realization struck me deeply. Never before had I felt like such a stranger in my own city of Boston. The only person I found myself trusting was the young woman occupying my house—Jane Reeves.

That night in my room, my thoughts drifted to her. There was something undeniable about her femininity and aura. I was a divorced man, unlucky in love, and it hadn’t been my intention to fall for her. Yet, my thoughts betrayed me.

My primary concern remained returning to my own time, but I had no idea how long I would remain in 1899. My knowledge was limited to the immediate facts and the unfolding situation.

There was so much I could not resolve, and the helplessness I felt began to make me doubt whether I would ever return. Where would I find the next slit in time? I couldn’t predict such an anomaly. I wasn’t a scientist—just a common man who had crossed the boundary of time and motion.

The following morning, I awoke to the bustling sound of the street: children riding bicycles, trams passing, carriages crossing, and even the rare glimpse of a Winton motor car. Though I was accustomed to Boston’s sounds, this version of the city was like nothing I had ever seen.

I left the hotel and approached the house, unsure of what to expect. During my previous visit, I had been welcomed, and I hoped that would still be the case. As I neared the house, I was somewhat nervous. Would she receive me, or ask me to return another time?

Her garden was roseate. I plucked a flower as a small token and knocked on her door. She answered with a gleaming smile and a sparkle in her dark eyes. Accepting the flower, she invited me—a stranger—to join her for breakfast at a quaint nearby café.

During our conversation, I was most intrigued to learn about her life in the house and in Boston. She told me she was born and bred here and had purchased the house from a prominent family named Shelton. She was unmarried and had no beau at the time—like myself, a lonely child of the city. I told her I was also a Boston native, though I lied and said I had recently returned from New York.

“I was always curious to know who had lived in the house before me. Did you enjoy the house as much as I have, Mr. Tasker?”

“Yes, indeed. I only regret not purchasing it sooner.”

“I must admit, I’m a bit envious. It’s not every day one finds such comfort in a fine home—or meets the former owner.”

“True. I share that sentiment.”

“What made you purchase it, if I may ask?”

“Well…it would have to be the location.”

“A good reason. I chose it for the same. It seems we have much in common.”

“I’m beginning to think the same.”

It had been a long time since I had enjoyed the company of a woman. And I sensed she, too, had not recently shared time with an eccentric man capable of making her feel special. Despite the divide of centuries and language, an unmistakable bond was forming between us. Thus, the seed of our romance sprouted.

Perhaps it would have seemed foolish to believe in love at first sight in the 21st century—but I was in the 19th.

Something about her and this time had awakened my sense of love and adventure—feelings long dormant in my own mundane century. After breakfast, we walked together through the Boston Public Garden—her favorite park, and also mine.

Though some neighborhoods had not yet been built, the park’s essence remained captivating. Graceful swans glided across the pond, children laughed in boats with their parents, and vibrant flowers bloomed in the botanical garden—more abundant than in my own time. It was a place of simple joy.

We stood upon the bridge, marveling at the beauty. I could hardly believe my luck. Once lost in an alien time, I had now come to appreciate it—thanks to the unexpected encounter with a beautiful woman who lived in my home.

There were no smartphones, no televisions, no digital distractions. The motorcar was still a novelty. After the park, we took a tram to a place she adored—and I did too, unbeknownst to her: the Old Corner Bookstore. There, the great minds of literature—Wadsworth, Longfellow, Hawthorne, Emerson, Dickens—had once gathered.

The building remained almost unchanged. I browsed old magazines—Arena, Argosy, The Atlantic, Bookman, Harper's Bazaar, Ladies’ Home Journal. I had seen them in my century but had never read them.

Jane, it turned out, shared my passion for reading and writing. She had even met Oscar Wilde during a visit to London.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Mr. Tasker,” she said, “but something tells me you’re a stranger… and yet, it feels like you’ve always been here.”

“Please—call me William.”

“William, then. And you may call me Jane.”

“Although I’ve traveled much, Boston will always be home.”

“Are you unwed?” she asked.

“If by that you mean not married—yes.”

“And why haven’t you married?”

“Because I hadn’t yet met the woman who could sweep me away.”

I lifted her in my arms.

“Now you have," she uttered.

Within a week, our courtship deepened. I was preparing to move in and even to propose. In my own century, such a swift engagement might be deemed madness. But I had never felt such a profound connection with any woman before.

We became inseparable—like two souls refreshed by each other's presence and wit. I began to see her as my true soulmate. I was ready to forsake my return to the 21st century to remain with her in the 19th.

One day, she took me to the Museum of Fine Arts. There, among the works of Copley, Homer, Sargent, and Stuart, she revealed a painting she had created herself—on public display. I was stunned. I hadn’t known of her talent. The museum, located on Copley Square, had become the Copley Plaza Hotel in my century. The sight gave me chills—both of wonder and of nostalgia.

She was ravishing in a silhouette dress: bell-shaped skirt, lace trimmings, gigot sleeves. With every detail I learned about Jane, I appreciated her more. Her thinking mirrored mine. Despite our centuries apart, we met in the middle with trust and affection.

Where had she been all my life? How ironic that destiny would deliver her to me—across time. Her beauty and spirit were rare and genuine. I could share my deepest thoughts, and she did the same.

In the evenings, I would play the piano while she sang. Slowly, I began to let go of the technological marvels of my century. I no longer missed them.

Had I finally accepted my fate in this simpler, more profound age?

We had taken a playful bicycle ride together along the Public Gardens. It was the first time in decades that I had ridden a bicycle—I was used to driving my car. This wasn’t just any bicycle; it was a model from the year 1899. I felt like a spry adolescent, reemerging from a dull isolation to discover a fascinating world of new adventures.

All I knew was that I was somewhere in time, savoring every moment amidst the wafting scent of nature and the foliage beneath a sky painted in delicate shades of blue. Whatever had brought me to Jane, it was surely destiny. I could not concede to the notion that one day, this would all fade with the passing of centuries.

A new century was on the verge of arriving. It was nearly 1900, and we were engaged. Time could not offer us a greater reward than the priceless devotion we had found in one another.

"Where have you been all these years, William? I’ve searched for Mr. Right—and then you appeared from nowhere, it seems. But it can’t be from nowhere. It must be from somewhere."

My intuition told me she was close to deciphering the mystery of me. “Perhaps,” I replied, “but all I know is that you are my true soulmate.”

“What do you mean by that?” She inquired.

“It means you are my fresh breath, the beauty I admire. You make me feel like no other woman ever has.”

“You’re so flattering with your words—it’s winsome to hear. And you awaken something in me that makes me feel inseparable from you.”

“I speak only from the heart, Jane.”

Strangely, I found myself speaking like a Victorian. A month had passed, and I was living with her as her future husband. It was bizarre to acknowledge, because that house—our house—would one day belong to me, more than a century later.

From the outside, the house was the same as I remembered. But inside, it had changed considerably. The living room I knew had been divided into a parlor and hallway. The bedrooms upstairs were different as well. In my own time, I had preserved many of the original Victorian furnishings, but the antiquities I now saw in their pristine state were far more ornate and exquisite.

Despite the changes, the house retained its charm and refinement. Oddly enough, the polished piano was exactly the same as I had known it. The paintings were picturesque, and the portraits of Jane exuded her beauty and grace. She deserved every accolade and admiration a man could offer.

Our first kiss was as memorable as our last. The way we looked at each other—genuine, magnetic, and new—was the true essence of romance. We were a flame that consumed itself in love’s warmth.

Jane had recently purchased a phonograph and a set of large cylinders. It played orchestral music. I came from a time when music was downloaded digitally—the contrast was jarring, but delightful. She had invited me to the Paris Exposition of 1900.

There was one truth I had kept hidden, one that weighed on me with increasing guilt: I had not told Jane I was from the 21st century. How could I begin to confess such a fantastic fact? Surely, she would think I was mad. And yet, the anxiety of not telling her gnawed at me.

We took a trip to New York, then crossed the Atlantic by ship to visit London. We strolled through Paris, wandered Amsterdam, and wandered the vibrant streets of Madrid. When we returned to America, our wedding was set for the coming year.

During the voyage, we discussed building a family, starting a business together, and embracing the life we were creating. Though I never dared to predict the future, it was beautiful to imagine. But one haunting thought persisted: how long could I remain in this time?

Part of me wanted to tell Jane. Another part didn’t want to burden her with such uncertainty. But love, I thought, was all that mattered. One evening, we went to the Boston Music Hall on Winter Street to see the Boston Symphony Orchestra perform. That building no longer existed in my time—replaced by a modern cinema. Symphony Hall, the one I knew, would not be built until 1900.

Victorian societal rigidity was beginning to fade. A breath of fresh freedom filled the air, symbolized by the extravagance of the fashion. Jane wore an elegant satin gown embroidered with beads and covered by a flowing cape. Her lavender perfume was irresistible.

I wore a white starched shirt, a stiff collar, a black tie, and a fine blue two-piece suit with polished black shoes. It was to be a night of intimacy and significance.

As the orchestra played, I watched her eyes gleam and her smile glow. I felt her heartbeat in every note. I knew her heart beat for me, as mine did for her.

How could I have known that our time was slipping away? That our love, so vibrant and tangible, would soon face the cruel hand of fate? That our separation would be as material as it was unbearable?

Later that night, we returned home, consumed in the embrace of passion. These moments were more than memories—they were the very essence of our union. Her lips, soft as rose petals, seduced me.

“Your beauty is unmatched, Jane. There is a sensual sparkle in your eyes that enchants me completely.”

“You always know just what to say to conquer my heart, William.”

“Let me wrap you in desires that will make you shiver.”

“I’ve waited a lifetime for a man like you.”

“Allow me to savor the sweetness of your lips.”

“My lips are yours to taste—and my body, yours to love.”

While apart, we wrote letters to each other with fountain pens, and exchanged keepsakes—a pocket watch for me, a silver trinket for her. We spent Sundays at the Boston Harbor, watching sunsets and ships. We explored Little Brewster Island, climbing the lighthouse and breathing in the salt-kissed air.

Ours was a romance born from the very essence of love. Yet one truth loomed over us—time. Time, which neither Jane nor I could control. Time, the uninvited cruelty.

On the morning of December 31, snowflakes fell gently on our lawn. Winter had arrived. We stepped outside to make a snowman and snowwoman, capturing something of our likeness in the playful sculptures.

It was the most meaningful winter of my life—because I was spending it with Jane. We visited the department store to gather items for the evening's festivities. We had plans, joy, and hope. Neither of us knew it would be our last day and night together as a committed couple.

All day, I had the strange sensation that something unseen was approaching, something inevitable. Had I known what was to come, I would have tried to prevent it. That night, we sat by the fireplace and spoke of our dreams for the new century.

I told Jane we would expand the business. She was delighted. But more important to her, we were expecting a child. We celebrated with pure joy.

We attended the party, but returned home early—Jane was feeling unwell. She assured me it was nothing serious, just fatigue. I tucked her into bed and stayed by her side.

At last, I couldn’t hold my secret any longer.

“Jane, there’s something I must tell you.”

She looked at me with concern. “What is it, my dear? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I’m not from this century.”

She blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I’m from the 21st century. I’m a time traveler.”

Her face fell into disbelief. “Are you jesting?”

“I wish I were. But it’s the truth. I came here through a slit in time. It happened suddenly. Strange, I know—but there are accounts of such things in history.”

Jane’s brow furrowed. “What you’re saying…it’s impossible. People don’t just travel through time. That belongs in weird fiction magazines.”

“I understand. It defies everything you’ve ever known. But it happened. And I love you with everything I am.”

“Then prove it, William,” she whispered. “How can you prove it?”

Among the priceless antiquities of her collection, I discovered an item in the house that had inexplicably remained during my stay—despite my presence being a century and a half in the past. It was my laptop. This was the confirmation of everything I had asserted. No Victorian had ever seen such a device.

Jane’s reaction made clear her disbelief, even as her eyes flickered with a trace of wonder.

“I still can’t believe it. How is this even possible? I’ve never seen such a strange thing.”

“All I know, Jane, is that I love you—and I’m willing to stay here, in this time, with you forever.”

“And I love you too, William.”

Those were her last words to me.

That night, by the light of an oil lamp, I stood by her bedside as she slept. I took to the Chesterfield sofa in the parlor, thinking I’d wake to her pretty face in the morning, as the first rays of sunlight slipped through the velvet curtains.

But when I awoke, everything had changed. The new year had arrived—not as 1900, the dawn of the 20th century, but as the 21st. Somehow, without my knowing, I had returned to my original time. The house had shifted too, transformed back into the modern arrangement it had when I first bought it.

In a panic, I ran to the bedroom to find Jane—but she was gone. I searched every room, calling out her name. There was no trace of her. She had vanished… or had been left behind in the past. The only thing that remained was the trinket I had once given her.

I raced through the streets of Boston in my car—Allston Village, Bowdoin Geneva, Brighton, Chinatown, East Boston, Egleston Square, Fields Corner, Four Corners, Greater Ashmont, Grove Hall, Hyde Park, Roxbury, Mission Hill—desperately hoping to find her.

I revisited every place we had shared, only to return empty-handed. I even returned to North Street, to the very bookstore where I had once crossed time. But I couldn’t find her. I couldn’t go back. I was trapped in the 21st century… and worst of all, without her.

I turned onto Tremont Street, where once we had attended a lecture by Emerson. She had worn her green velvet coat and kept tugging at the sleeves, nervous for reasons she never explained. I remember she held my hand too tightly the entire evening and said nothing during the walk home. Later, in the quiet of our kitchen, she told me she feared living an ordinary life.

“You?” I said. “You are anything but ordinary.”

“No,” she replied, “but the world is very good at pulling us downward, like gravity, until we no longer realize how far we’ve settled.”

She had a way of saying things that lodged into the corners of the mind, only to bloom years later when you least expected it.

Now, walking the same streets, I could hear her voice echoing in glass windows and subway grates.

I stopped at the edge of Boston Common, where the old trees still reached their arms toward the sky. It was here, under the oaks, that we first really kissed in public. She had slipped her hand into mine, unspoken, and pulled me to the shadows where branches arched like cathedral ceilings. The world had fallen silent then—no carriages, no passersby, not even wind.

Afterward, she laughed and said, “Now it’s real.”

“What do you mean?” I had asked.

“You only love someone truly,” she said, “once you’ve kissed them in a place where the world might see and you no longer care who’s watching.”

The bench where we had sat was still there. The iron rusted now, the wood replaced, but it was the same place.

I sat again, fifty years and a heartbeat later.

It was strange how grief lived. Not only in loss, but in the persistence of memory. You didn’t merely miss a person—you missed the world that existed when they were alive. You missed the specific sunlight of their presence. You missed the feeling of being known.

Around me, the park was alive with strangers. Children raced past with glowing toys. A young woman walked by with a dog wearing a bandana. An older couple sat nearby, sharing a thermos of tea, not speaking, just being. All of it beautiful. All of it irrelevant to the ache in my ribs.

I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the city wash over me. Somewhere, faintly, a saxophone played. Somewhere, Jane was laughing in a memory I couldn’t touch.

Later, I walked toward Beacon Hill.

The brownstones had changed little, even as the city transformed around them. Here was where Jane had once dragged me into an argument with a street vendor because he had insulted her poetry. I had been mortified; she had been electric.

“Words matter,” she said, later, while pacing the parlor like a firework. “And when someone throws careless ones into the world, it’s our duty to catch them and throw them back—sharper.”

That was Jane. Always defending beauty, even when it made her difficult.

I went to the harbor. The water was grey and restless. It had been one of her favorite places—oddly, given that she could not swim and was terrified of deep water.

“It reminds me of my thoughts,” she had once said, staring out across the waves. “Deep, unpredictable, occasionally violent.”

We had walked this pier once, arm in arm. It was cold, and she had pressed her face into my shoulder and whispered, “If I ever disappear, let the sea carry my name.”

At the time, I had laughed, thinking it dramatic. But now, standing alone by the water, I realized she had always known she would vanish from this world too soon.

It made me wonder: had she seen it coming? Was her mind so tuned to time that she had heard the distant echo of her own departure?

I stood.

I looked across the water one last time then took a deep breath and left the harbor with a wistful sigh.

There was one place she had especially loved—our little pond, where we used to row boats together on Saturdays. I returned there and stood in silence. Slowly, I began to accept what I didn’t want to believe: I might never see her exquisite face again, never hold her in this life.

I retraced every step, every action from the previous night. Had I triggered the return? Had I slipped unknowingly into a temporal fold—one that brought me back, this time to stay? I became obsessed with the thought of returning to her. My body was here, but my heart and soul remained in 1899, with Jane.

I clutched the trinket to my chest. I went to the hall where her pictures had once hung—and they were still there. So was the last photo we took together at the park. Somehow, they had withstood the erosion of time.

Days passed. Then weeks. Still, no sign of Jane. No sign of return.

I found myself swallowed by solitude, tormented by regret.

Then, without explanation, her love letters appeared in the drawers of the bedroom. I sat on our bed reading them, tears falling freely. Our love had drifted into the clouds above, into some unreachable paradise of memory and dream. I knew now that she was long gone. Her presence had faded like the smoke of a snuffed candle.

Worse still was the haunting guilt: I would never meet our unborn child. Nights became an unbearable silence. The corridors were echoes of sorrow, and I was isolated in grief.

The days that followed my strange return were cloaked in a kind of sleepwalking. Boston was not the city I had left. The old street names remained, but the scent of horses and soot had vanished, replaced by steel and glass and the muted hum of electric life. The ache in me was not for the lost century—it was for Jane.

I wandered the house with a blind devotion, seeking her presence.

My own house, a townhouse I had once occupied in another lifetime, stood miraculously preserved through the decades. My great-grandniece, whom I had never met, had inherited it and left it mostly untouched. She had no interest in its history, and it had become a forgotten relic among her possessions.

Inside, everything was cloaked in dust and quiet.

Here, the air still smelled faintly of rosewood and old books. The staircase creaked just the same. I found myself tracing the bannister with the same motion I had once done idly while waiting for Jane to descend in her silk gowns.

Every room in that house was a memory, even the parlor.

This was the room where we spent our first winter together. Jane had insisted we place an armchair by the fireplace so we could read aloud to each other. I had introduced her to Poe and Whitman; she introduced me to the French poets—Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine. She would sometimes read in French, not to show off, but because she loved how the words curled around her lips like warm wine.

“Language is the true time traveler,” she once said, “because words live longer than we do.”

One snowy afternoon, I had found her asleep in the chair, the book splayed open on her chest, a lock of hair falling across her cheek. I had not woken her. I had only stood there, watching, holding the fullness of that moment in my breath.

I think I already knew then, even if I would never have said it aloud, that time with her would never be enough.

I remember her flour-dusted cheeks when she once attempted to bake. She turned to me, utterly defeated by dough, and said, “I think I’m better suited to thoughts than recipes.”

“You’re better suited to everything,” I told her, and I meant it.

The small moments—mundane and golden—were the ones that haunted me now. Not the grand gestures or sweeping declarations. Just the quiet rituals of intimacy: the way she hummed while drying dishes, the way she paused before opening a letter as if it might contain a fragment of fate.

Spring was Jane’s season. She bloomed with the lilacs. She had a way of crouching by the flowerbeds that made her look like a girl again—curious, unhardened by grief. She named the robins and believed they returned each year to greet her.

“It’s the same one,” she insisted once, pointing at a particularly plump bird. “He remembers me.”

I had laughed gently and said, “Or he’s in love with you, like every living thing.”

Sometimes we would sit on the garden bench and speak of the far-off future. What might change. What might endure. She was fascinated by the concept of women voting, of music without instruments, of pictures that moved.

"Will we still write letters in the future?" she asked once.

"I hope so," I said. "Though perhaps love letters will become rarer. Technology has no patience for poetry."

She frowned at that, then leaned her head against my shoulder. “Then promise me this: if one day we are separated—by time or death or anything—promise you will remember to love me poetically.”

“I swear it,” I said. And I did.

The bedroom room held our silences. Not all lovers understand the value of them. But Jane did. There were nights we would lie awake in the dark, not speaking, our fingers lightly entwined. She once told me, “The truest form of connection is when nothing needs to be said.”

Here, in this room, we shared our griefs too.

The night we lost our child, Jane did not cry. She only clutched my hand and stared at the wall until dawn. Her strength frightened me that night. Not because it made her cold—but because it made me feel unworthy of it.

She did not speak of the loss again. Not directly. But after that night, she began keeping fresh flowers in the house every day. As if trying to fill the air with what might have been life.

It was in this room that I first told her about my strange dreams—dreams where I saw streetcars and skyscrapers, heard voices in machines. She listened, never laughed. She always believed in more than the visible world.

“Perhaps you’re dreaming your way forward,” she said once.

Or backward, I thought now.

My old study remained nearly intact. The desk still bore my initials, carved foolishly into the underside in my youth. It was here that I had first read the strange book—the one from the hidden bookstore—whose pages shifted when touched by candlelight.

That book was gone now. Or maybe it had never existed, at least not in a form that obeyed ordinary time.

But Jane had come in one day, catching me studying it. She had watched me in silence, then said, “Your mind lives in multiple centuries, I think. Promise me you’ll always return to this one.”

I had laughed. “I have no plans to leave.”

I did not know then that time has its own plans.

As I sat now in that same study, I opened another drawer and found more letters. They had been kept in a bundle tied with silk ribbon, preserved like pressed roses. I read through each one slowly, like they were breaths of air after drowning.

William, my dearest,
You told me once that you feared time more than death. I never quite understood that until recently. Because now, time feels like the slow undoing of everything I held dear. I wonder if you will still be here when this letter is found. Or if you will already have become a memory. If you do vanish, then know I forgive the world, but not Time. Never Time.

With a heart full of you,
Jane

I folded the letter back into the bundle and held it close. She had sensed it—somehow—she had known that my presence might be temporary. That perhaps our love defied logic and time did not like to be defied.

I leaned back in the old leather chair and closed my eyes.

Images came in floods.

Jane on the swing in the garden, her laughter louder than the creaking chains.
Jane in the library, lips moving silently as she read.
Jane with her hair down, running through the field outside town, the hem of her dress darkening with dew.
Jane at the train station, waving a handkerchief, mouthing, "Come back to me."

How could I forget her now?

It would feel like betrayal. It would mean saying goodbye. And I was not ready for goodbye—not yet. Not when I could still smell her perfume on the folds of the old scarves in the wardrobe. Not when the echoes of her steps still lingered in the hallway.

Perhaps the worst part of remembering was knowing I would never again create new memories with her. Only relive the old ones.

And yet, I could not avoid it forever.

I had to see where she had been laid to rest. I had to speak aloud the love I had carried across decades. I had to lay my hands on her name, etched in stone, and tell her—somehow—that I came back. That I kept my promise.

But first, I let myself grieve in silence.

I remained in that house until the light outside turned to dusk. The walls around me became the theatre of our love, every creak and whisper a scene in the life we had shared. And though it brought pain, it also brought peace.

Love, I realized, had not left with her.

It had remained, woven through every curtain, every stair, every windowpane. Love was not bound by presence. It lingered, stubbornly, through absence.

I looked around the room one last time.

Then I stood thinking, it was time to find her.

I searched the city for any relatives of hers, using the surname Reeves. Through research on my laptop, I managed to find a potential descendant living in Mission Hill.

I visited the home and was received by a young woman—indeed, a relative of Jane. When I told her who I was, she looked at me knowingly and let me in. She returned with a box of Jane’s personal items and recollections from 1899.

“I’ve been waiting,” she said, “I knew one day someone would come asking.”

“You’re related to William Tasker?” she asked.

I hesitated. I couldn’t tell her the truth.

“Yes,” I said. “I am a relative of his.”

She nodded gently. “It’s been so long. I always knew this day would come.”

“Indeed, it has.”

“But why now?”

“I suppose…because now is the right moment.”

I asked about Jane and our child. Her name was Charlotte, and she told me Jane had never married. She lived to the age of 89, passing away in 1969. She had been buried beside her beloved son in a cemetery off Boylston Street, between Tremont and Charles. I hadn’t known—our child had died a year after his birth, in 1900.

I visited the cemetery that day. The wind blew with a mournful cry. Snow had melted into shallow pools, casting a dull reflection of my crestfallen face. I found their graves—Jane’s and our son's. I collapsed to my knees before their epitaphs, overtaken by sorrow. Why hadn’t I perished with them? I no longer wished to live.

The wind softened, brushing gently against my face. Then, I saw it—a familiar shimmer of light. The portal. A slit of time, just as before. On a nearby gravestone, beside Jane and our son's, was another name: William Tasker. The date of birth read 1874. The date of death—1969. Though I hadn’t been born in that year, what struck me was the year of death. It was a sign.

The portal had somehow reopened. It gave me the moment to seize. Thus, I knew that it was the moment that I was waiting to occur.

I thought only of Jane. I didn’t hesitate. I stepped into the radiant light—to return, to remain, to live once more in the indelible dawn of the 20th century…with her forever.

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