By Brianna Tibbetts

My stroll down the block came to a halt as I caught the sign in my periphery. TIMELESS: Antiques & Vintage Goods. I could practically feel the time portal pulse with hope, though I’d shoved the former deep within my bag and the latter deep within my soul.

Perhaps due to the sunny day, the door stood open. At the counter, directly facing the open door, a woman as bright as the weather beamed at me. “Something calling you, ma’am? Come on in! We’ve got lots of treasures!”

Something called to me indeed, but the source was unlikely to be in this shop. Still, the small tendril of hope surrounding my heart tightened. I couldn’t ignore it.

I stepped inside, trading fresh summer air for the unique musty aroma of the shop. “I’ll just look for a moment,” I murmured.

The clerk offered an easy smile. “Sure, sure. Just let me know if you need something, ma’am.”

It was the type of politeness common to the twenty-first century, and I replied with a nod. I’d grown up in a future without these sorts of niceties. Then lived for decades in an even further past that thrived on them. Now I was caught between the two, with mere echoes of what I wanted most.

On the countertop sat a cardboard box full of photographs, and my breath caught. The sign read: “Photos: 25¢ each.” It was too much like every other box I’d desperately searched. Each one full of memories, but none of them right.

None of them mine.

I reached out, wrinkles crinkling as my fingers settled on the first image. A black and white photo of a couple on their wedding day. My eyes blurred, and I pulled the photo closer to my face.

The clothing was wrong, the year certainly not right, but I swore I saw our faces. That woman in a distinctly 1930s era wedding gown—she wore my face. In her groom, my husband stared back at me.

But when I blinked, my vision cleared. I held a photo from the 30s, but not of me and my husband. We hadn’t met until 1944, and our own wedding photo was dated 1946.

My hand shook as I returned the image. The box contained rows of photographs taunting me. I would never find one that could take me back. Every antique store reminded me that I was stuck. No longer tied down to the century in which I’d been born, but unable to grasp onto the year where the life I’d built waited for me.

I would never get home.

Never see my husband again.

Never laugh on our front porch together.

Never trace the pen strokes on his love letters while he stood in the doorway of our bedroom and called me a sentimental old lady.

Never hear him plead for stories when I would return home from an Agency mission.

I’d done everything the Agency had asked and had retired with honors, but what was it worth if they couldn’t even get me to the right year?

“Oh! Ma’am! Are you all right?”

I blinked and stepped back, glancing down. The box lay at my feet, photos scattered across the floor. My face heated and I stooped, reaching for the mess.

“I’m so sorry. I-I don’t know what came over me.” I let my age show in my voice as I lied. How could I explain my anger at this box of all the wrong memories?

When I glanced up, the clerk watched me with narrowed eyes, but she didn’t challenge me.

“It’s quite all right, ma’am. You can leave those, if you like. I’ll clean up.”

I shook my head and settled on my knees. I righted the toppled box, reaching for the photos to neatly stack them. “No, no, it’s my fault. I wanted to look through them all anyway.” I forced a small laugh.

Polite as ever, she laughed back.

She left me to the mess I’d made as I gave each photo a passing glance. I saw our faces in each one, but none of them were us. The couple on a porch swing in the 40s. The teenagers holding hands in a driveway in 1958, according to the back. The couple kissing in costumes at what must have been some sort of renaissance faire in the late 60s. What were their stories? Had they been brought together only to be torn apart? Or had they lived out their happily ever after?

I reached for the final photo I’d sent sprawling. It lay face down, with only some faded pen marks visible.

As I brought it closer and the words came into focus, I couldn’t help but choke. Thomas & Vanessa. 1976—Thirtieth Anniversary Party. Two days before I’d left for my final mission. Forty years in the past, but only four years in my past. Four years too long.

My hand reached for my bag as I turned the photo, though I already knew what I would see. Me in my monochrome sweater and skirt set. Thomas in his suit that flared out in a way I secretly thought looked a little silly on him. Both of us looking at the other, ignoring our camera-wielding friend.

I pulled the time portal free, opened it, and set the photo inside.

“Are you okay, ma’am? What’ve you got there?”

I smiled as I stood, then set the box of photos back on the counter where it might help some other poor, trapped soul someday. I extended my hand to the clerk, who warily held out her own hand. I dropped a quarter into her waiting palm.

On the portal’s display, the words, “1976—Year Confirmed. Travel When Ready.” awaited me. Heart racing, I rested my finger against the button.

“This,” I told her with a teary smile, “is my ticket home.”

I pressed the button.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brianna Tibbetts writes fierce and fantastical stories, including The Knight in Battered Armor, an all-ages fairy tale, and Head Over Tails, a New Adult Contemporary Romantasy. She is a two-time Realm Award finalist, and has published eight pieces of short fiction across multiple genres. In addition to writing, her other superpowers include being Ginger and fibercrafts, and she is currently based in Coastal North Carolina.

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