Tangled In Time

Cottage

We began walking through the forest, retracing our steps from earlier, but now the path was shrouded in darkness. The branches of the trees formed intricate patterns against the dark blue/black sky. The chirping of birds had been replaced by the rhythmic hum of crickets, filling the air with a soothing, almost hypnotic cadence. The dampness of the forest floor softened our footsteps, the faint scent of moss and decaying leaves mingling with the crisp night air.

"People are bound to wonder where you've disappeared to," I remarked into the obscurity.

"You would think so," Blake replied, his gaze focused on the path ahead. "But they're probably too busy enjoying themselves. The town's been through its fair share of tough times since the war. This celebration has been something they've been looking forward to, regardless of me."

His tone was calm, yet there was a shadow in his voice that I couldn't quite place. I let the conversation drift into silence as we continued along the darkened trail.

When we arrived at the cottage, Blake retrieved a key from his pocket and swung open the door. The place had undergone a complete transformation since our visit earlier that morning. The dusty sheets were gone, the air smelled faintly of lavender polish, and the absence of cobwebs was unmistakable. A small, warm glow from a single lamp illuminated the room, making it feel inviting despite its age. My eyes were instantly drawn to an archive box on the dining table, with a shoebox resting neatly on top. My curiosity—or perhaps my nosiness—got the better of me, and I took a step toward it.

Before I could ask about the contents, Blake spoke, his tone quiet but purposeful. "I had a few of the maids come in to spruce the place up, and just before I got dressed for the party, I brought these down from the loft. There's quite a bit in there—papers, journal entries, letters. The shoebox has some photographs. I haven't looked through them yet; I wasn't ready. I thought maybe we could look at them together. Who knows? There might be something in there that helps us figure out how to get you home."

His words hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. I could see the tension in his posture, the way his hand rested on the back of one of the chairs as if grounding himself.

Blake's expression grew sombre as he continued, "My dad passed away from cancer last year, and before he died, he told me about a woman who claimed to be from the future. At first, I thought it might have been the ramblings of a sick man, but he kept recounting the story, over and over. He said he'd written me a letter—a letter he kept locked in the desk in the library. It had been written years earlier."

Blake moved to a cabinet in the living room and unlocked it with a small key. From within, he produced a thick envelope and handed it to me. His movements were deliberate, almost reverent.

"May I?" I asked, hesitant to intrude on something so personal.

Blake nodded silently. "I'll make us a drink while you read. You'll need it—I did."

He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me to settle into one of the armchairs. The soft creak of the old wood beneath me was the only sound as I slipped off my shoes and tucked my feet beneath me. The wind outside rustled the trees, casting dancing shadows across the room. There was something surreal about the moment—an old cottage filled with secrets, a mysterious letter in my hands, and the faint hum of the past lingering in the air.

Blake returned with two glasses and a bottle of port, setting them on the table between us. The deep ruby hue of the liquid glinted in the dim light as he poured, the faint aroma of sweet wine wafting between us. I took a sip, the warmth spreading through me, and turned my attention back to the letter.

19th March 1942,

My Dearest Son,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I fear it will be a challenge to read. There are things I must confess, secrets that have weighed heavily upon my conscience for far too long. As I pen these words, I am acutely aware that my time on this Earth is dwindling, and I can no longer bear the burden of my concealed truths.

In the year 1921, my life took an inexplicable turn, one that I could scarcely believe myself. I was in our family home, mired in the routines of daily existence. Little did I know that fate had a peculiar and extraordinary event in store for me. It began on an autumn morning, a morning like any other, filled with mundane thoughts of daily chores. But as I entered our kitchen, I was met with a sight that defied all logic and reason.

Before me stood a woman, dishevelled and trembling, her eye bearing witness to the unspeakable horrors she had endured. Her gaze held a terror that pierced my very soul. She had appeared in our kitchen, not from our time, but from the year 1989, a place and era I could scarcely comprehend.

This woman had been transported across the boundaries of time itself, having hidden in a dumbwaiter in her own time to escape her cruel and abusive husband. When she emerged from her hiding place, she found herself stranded in a world alien to her own. I could not ignore her plight; her vulnerability and desperation pulled at my heartstrings.

I welcomed her into our home and devised a way for her to work in our household. She became our gardener, though it was unclear how long it would take for her to find her way back to 1989. Her journey was one of trials and tribulations as we explored the uncharted territories of time travel. Throughout it all, she carried the enduring fear of the man she had fled from, a man whose cruelty transcended the confines of time.

In the midst of our shared struggles, a remarkable bond developed between us. But life, as it tends to do, threw complications our way. I was bound by a promise of marriage to another woman, and our impending union was set in stone. I could not follow my heart, though it is important to understand that I married your mother out of duty and obligation, not love. In the years that followed, we faced our share of sorrow, particularly when our attempts to have a child proved futile. The weight of this disappointment was heavy, but life has a way of surprising us in the most unexpected ways.

It was only later that we discovered the woman who had escaped her torment had, during her time in 1921, conceived a child, and that child, my dear son, is you. I confess this not to burden you with the knowledge of my infidelity but to share the truth that has tormented my soul for far too long.

I beseech you to hold this secret close to your heart, for the forces at play here are beyond our comprehension, and the consequences of revealing this truth may be dire. Please know that I have loved you with all the strength of my heart. This letter seeks to shine a light on a chapter of my life veiled in secrecy. May you find the strength to bear this knowledge with the same love and compassion that have always defined our bond. In the loft, you will discover, my journal and photographs I have kept from that time, which will offer you a more profound understanding of what transpired all those years ago.

I am sorry my son, that I leave you with this burden. 

With all my love,

Your Father

As I finished reading, my hands trembled slightly, the weight of the revelations sinking in. I looked up at Blake, who sat silently across from me, his gaze fixed on the flickering shadows on the wall.

"What are you thinking?" I asked softly.

Blake took a sip of his port, the liquid catching the light. "I've been asking myself the same thing for months." His voice was quiet but steady. "It changes everything—and nothing, all at once."

The wind outside picked up, rattling the windowpane. The room felt smaller somehow, the walls closing in as the weight of the past settled over us. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence filled with questions neither of us dared to voice.