A Promise Across Time [Completed]

Breakfast with the Past

March 1, 1963
Raven Ciaran

I woke up, as I had been trained, at exactly six in the morning. Beside me was a mess of red curls, and Frida, who was snoring lightly. Her awkward position made it clear she'd fallen asleep the moment she got home. Her work must have drained her completely. Even though she was well into her seventies, she was still full of life and vibrance, despite the toll that time and fame had taken.

It was surreal, waking up next to a living legend. I had once seen her perform at the Voyage concert series in May 2022 in Stratford, London. Aunt Ciel—yes, that Aunt Ciel, the superstar—had surprised my mother and me with spontaneous tickets. That night, I had met the members of ABBA in person. It had been awe-inspiring to witness their legacy, their energy still powerful, their bond unbroken.

Now, here I was, watching Frida, one of those icons, sleep beside me in her humble apartment. I couldn't help but marvel at how she had faced so many of life's adversities and still rose to become a global phenomenon. Some might call me lucky for sharing her life during these early days when she was still a "nobody." But I knew the truth—sooner or later, her incredible talent would bring her to places even she couldn't imagine.

Careful not to disturb her, I slipped out of bed. My stomach growled, and though it felt rude to raid her kitchen, hunger won out. Frida wouldn't mind, I reasoned. I opened the fridge and found some eggs, lettuce, butter, cheese, milk, yogurt, and bread. I slipped a couple of slices of bread into the oven to toast, scanning the shelves for jam when I heard the front door open.

"Åh! Vem är du?" an elderly voice exclaimed, startled.

I spun around, heart racing. A small, older woman with sharp eyes stood in the doorway, holding a set of keys. She must've let herself in. Her hair was neatly pinned back, and despite her age, her posture was straight, giving her an air of authority.

"Uh... sorry, I don't speak Swedish," I stammered. "My name is Raven. I'm British. Could you speak in English, please? And, um, I'm Frida's guest."

The older woman's eyes narrowed as she looked me up and down. After a pause, she walked into the kitchen and sat on one of the stools, never breaking eye contact. "How did you and Frida meet?"

I hesitated. Should I tell her the truth? But lying didn't feel right, especially to this sharp woman. "Before I answer that, may I ask who you are?"

Her stern face softened, and she let out a laugh, one full of warmth. "I am Arntine Lyngstad, Frida's grandmother."

A wave of relief swept over me. "I thought so. Thank you for confirming." Taking a deep breath, I added, "I suppose I should be honest, then."

I began recounting my story—how I had come from the future, how I knew things about Frida's future that she didn't, and how I had ended up here. I wasn't sure how much Arntine would believe, but I wasn't going to lie.

Arntine stayed quiet for a long time, her eyes fixed on me, taking it all in. When I finally finished, she leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. "So you're telling me that my Frida will reach stardom someday?"

I nodded, unsure how she would react.

She exhaled deeply and then gave me a small smile. "That's a lot to take in, Raven. A lot indeed. But first, we should finish preparing breakfast. You've made quite a mess here." Her tone was light, almost teasing.

"Sounds like a brilliant idea," I replied, glad for the break from the heavy conversation. She gave me a genuine smile, something I wasn't used to. People usually said I looked too serious, too distant. I wondered what I had done to earn her warmth. Was it the bizarre circumstances of our meeting? Or perhaps people in this era were simply kinder?