Over the Centuries

Teil Eins

The usual, frequent clouds passed leisurely, shielding the people from any possibility of a tan. The air of the town was tinted in a light grey veil, dusting its inhabitants' moods with ash. The streets often had a layer of liquid spread over the asphalt from last night's rainfall, but that being standard conditions, no one really noticed. And as it started like any other day, you'd think it would end like any other, also. Although, you'll find yourself terribly wrong by the completion of this story.

In the heart of Holmes Chapel, behind the glass windows of a small café, sat a middle aged woman by one of the few tables situated there. She was currently the only customer at Breakfast Salt. It was more of a bakery than a café, really. Mostly because the customers tended to pay for the bread and then leave; not many favoured to sit down and relax for a bit. At least not at Breakfast Salt. The woman's coffee had gone cold long ago but she was too deep in grading essays to notice the mundane factor. The bell above the door sounded softly in the homey space, beckoning the attention of the three people in the shop.

A man with surprisingly agreeable features stepped inside, shivering a tad from the temperature change. He surveyed the area and nodded towards the woman with a pleasant, greeting smile, before placing himself at the table opposite hers. She returned his smile before lowering her eyes to the school assignments in front of her. The man sighed as he let a bit of the tension in his shoulders release with a slacking of his muscles, easing his skin into the warmth of the atmosphere. He shrugged off his coat and laid it neatly over his worn satchel, the dark leather softened around the edges after decades of use.

In the kitchen a young baker slid a batch of yet-to-be loaves of apricot bread in the already heated oven. He had cared thoroughly for the dough and kneaded it with love; a warm sensation spread in his chest as he closed the oven around the lumps, pride filling him for having made them so perfectly.

"Love, would you mind tending to the customer? My hands are not the cleanest." Our young baker turned to look at his boss and only colleague; she stood there by the counter with her fingers pressed tightly around a piece of lemon.

"Of course, Felicity! One moment," he assured her as he reached for the notepad and pencil before exiting the kitchen. He approached the stranger at his table, noting that he did not recognise the man; probably his first time at the café. The man was reading an article in the newspaper he had splayed out on the wooden surface in front of him, too engrossed to fully perceive the baker's presence.

"Good afternoon! What can I get you, sir?"

The man's body went rigid, shock being an evident shade in the mix of colours. His eyes were still trained on the letter "B" of a particularly small headline, yet the shape and size of them had increased exceedingly. His gaze resembled that of a dead fish, glassily staring but unseeing. His head lifted slowly from facing the table to stare forward at the cinnamon buns in a basket by the counter.

"Um, sir? Are you alright? Can I help you?"

The stranger slowly pulled his eyes from the buns and settled them on the baker's face. His eyes were still wide and his jaw was hanging slack, too astounded to control his facial muscles.

His jaw jerked slightly in hope of communication.

"...Harry?" The baker's name fell from the stranger's vocal chords in a strangled whisper and all the young baker could do was stare. Stare as if waiting for an elaboration of some sort. His brows furrowed in confusion. "Er, do we know each other?" His voice was uncertain.

Harry had never seen this man before. It seemed like the newcomer was trying to say something but couldn't get his lips around the words. His eyes were flitting constantly between the ones of Harry, drinking in their hues for all their worth.

The stranger rose from his seat quickly, to place his shaking hands upon Harry's cheeks, desperately cupping around his jawbone.

"You're here..." his voice was hoarse from wielding such deep emotion. "You're actually here, after all this time, all these years. I've missed you so."

"Um," Harry could feel the panic rising. "Sir, you must have gotten the wrong bloke. Who are you?" He could feel the lady's apprehensive gaze on them and wished it could all just not happen. Why him? Out of all the people in the world that could have walked through the door, it had to be a mental patient. Fantastic.

Something seemed to dawn upon the man's face as his features slacked into a blank expression. Albeit his eyes seemed to leak of how crestfallen he actually felt.

"Oh, er, I am quite sorry. To just barge- very rude of me, I apologise." He gathered his satchel and newspaper, readying his coat for the English weather outside. "I ought to leave," he spoke urgently, likely from embarrassment. And then he was out the door, tugging his collar up to shield his neck from the merciless wind.

Harry stood frozen by the now vacant table, blinking at the wooden slate where the man had disappeared. His fingers clutched the notepad's paper tightly, tremulous, yet he paid no mind. All his thoughts danced around blue eyes and pretty hair, practically inhaling it all.

And it is upon this fateful encounter our story begins.