Tangled In Time

Tale Of Heartache

The path to the cottage was bathed in soft, golden sunlight filtering through the trees, casting intricate patterns on the ground with every step we took. A gentle breeze carried the faint fragrance of blooming wildflowers, mingling with the earthy scent of the forest. The serene surroundings seemed to chip away at the lingering tension from earlier, the quiet magic of the walk offering a rare moment of calm.

When we reached the cottage, Blake unlocked the door with a quiet click, the faint creak of the hinges breaking the stillness. Inside, the air held a faint echo of the night before, warm and familiar. Our glasses from the previous evening still rested on the kitchen counter, catching a glimmer of sunlight—a subtle reminder of shared laughter and the ease we'd found in each other's company.

My thoughts briefly drifted to our dance, the unspoken connection that had lingered like a thread between us. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if Blake felt it too, but I quickly shook the thought away, grounding myself in the task ahead. Blake had already moved to the stack of boxes, his posture a blend of focus and anticipation as he began carefully sorting through their contents.

He pulled out an envelope, its edges frayed and yellowed with time, and tipped it over, spilling out a stack of photographs. His brow furrowed as he sifted through them, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he held one up to the light. "This must be from when my father was about my age," he murmured, more to himself than to me. The sepia tones of the photograph caught the sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating a group of men in formal military uniforms, their expressions solemn yet proud.

I leaned closer, intrigued by the glimpse into Blake's history. "Is that him?" I asked, pointing to one of the figures in the photo.

Blake nodded, his fingers brushing the image lightly. "That's him on the left. I've seen a few photos like this before, but not this one specifically." He set it aside with care, then reached into the box again, pulling out a faded programme from what looked like an old theatre performance. His expression softened as he studied it, his thumb tracing the embossed lettering on the cover.

While Blake continued to explore the box, I moved toward another. The cracked leather cover of a journal caught my attention, its edges frayed and worn smooth by years of handling. I reached for it, running my fingers over the textured surface, feeling the weight of time and history in its heft. Opening it, I was greeted by elegant loops of inked script, curling across the pages like whispers from the past.

"Here" Blake said getting my attention. "This is the first Journal" I placed the one I had gotten out of the box and took the one he held out to me.

"Sorry," I said my cheeks feeling a little hot that I'd been to presumptuous and taken it upon myself to go into one of the boxes.
"Oh no! You're fine it's just it will be better if you read this one first as it's where everything starts. I've already read that one you had and there is nothing about the dumb waiter in there just drivel" he laughed.
I smiled back at him and then turned back to the journal, flipping to the pages Blake had mentioned earlier.

The room settled into a companionable silence, broken only by the soft rustle of paper and the occasional murmur from Blake as he uncovered something new in the box. The sunlight streaming through the window painted the space in warm hues, and for a moment, it felt as though time itself had slowed, holding us in the delicate balance of discovery and quiet reflection.

12th May 1919

This afternoon as I returned from tending the garden on what had been a gloriously fine and tranquil Sunday. I could not have anticipated the peculiar occurrence that awaited me indoors. The day had been marked by quiet labour among the rose beds, the blooms now reaching their peak and the gentle hum of bees lent a soothing accompaniment to my tasks. With the house hold staff enjoying their well earned day of rest, I resolved to fetch my own glass of lemonade to quench my thirst.
Upon entering the kitchen, however I stopped short, startled by the sight before me. A woman stood near the table, trembling visibly. Her clothing was unlike anything I had ever seen and her face bore clear signs of distress - bruises and cuts that hinted at recent violence. She looked up at me with an expression that was equal parts confusion and fear.
"Who are you, madam, and what are you doing in my home?" I demanded my voice firmer than I felt.

Her answer though faltering was enough to stay my alarm. She gave her name as Cecilia and explained with some difficulty that she had fled from her husband, whom she accused of violence. Her fear was palpable and though her story was incomplete there was a sincerity in her words that I just could not ignore.
As she gathered herself she began to speak more freely and her tale became stranger still!
She claimed to not know how she came to be in my kitchen and spoke of a world entirely foreign to me, a time beyond my own.
At first I thought her unwell, perhaps delirious from her ordeal but as she continued, there was something in her manner that gave me pause. Her clothing though torn and dusty, was fashioned from a material I did not recognise, her hair although messy was styled very strangely and her speech though articulate, carried an unfamiliar cadence.
Her presents seemed almost other worldly.
As the sun began to set between scepticism and a growing conviction that her story be true.
What am I to do with this woman ?

I finished reading the journal entry and sat back in the chair, the weight of Cecilia's story sinking deep into my thoughts. I glanced over at Blake, who was still reading, his head bowed and one hand rubbing his temple. The light from the window cast soft shadows on his face, making his expression unreadable.

"I don't know what to say," I admitted awkwardly into the silence, breaking the stillness of the room. My voice sounded small, almost hesitant.

Blake's head snapped up at my words, and I noticed he had a different journal in his hand.
"Wait until you get to this one, Heavy stuff," he said finally, his voice low and thoughtful. He stood, walking to the box and dropping the journal in the box with less care than I think he intended his movements were deliberate, but there was a heaviness in his posture, as though the words he'd read had physically weighed him down.

I watched him carefully, sensing that he was grappling with more than he was letting on. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the tension of unresolved emotions.

Blake rubbed his face, his features tense. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something, but instead, he shifted his focus back to the box, picking up another journal. He thumbed through the pages without looking at me, an invisible wall of silence between us. It wasn't a cold dismissal, but rather a quiet retreat into himself—a need for space to process what he'd uncovered.

Sensing his need for quiet reflection, I waited patiently. My eyes wandered to the room around us, taking in its rustic charm. The old wooden beams and the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the curtains gave the cottage an air of timelessness, as though it, too, carried the weight of the stories contained within these journals.