Katinki graciously edited this story

Chapter 29

I surface from unconsciousness in stages, each one stretching on for what feels like eternity.

At first, I pick up a faint sound that might be a buzz or the distant rattle of drums. It comes from far away, sluggish and warped, as if passing through layers of thick water. Little by little, the barrier between me and that noise fades, and I realize it isn't rattling at all.

It's clapping.

Another performance?

Even in my state of half slumber, half numbness, I can't help but snicker. Clearly, I'm becoming a patron of the arts.

The applause feels wrong, though. It's unnaturally slow, weighted with a meaning I can't quite grasp, yet somehow, I know that I must because my life depends on it. I can't shake off the feeling that I've reached the end of something monumental, with the metaphorical closing credits about to roll.

Shit. Have I died?

The thought jolts something within me, and I snap back to full awareness.

Stretching, I take a deep breath, and… my heart slams against my ribs.

They say that smell is the strongest and the purest trigger of memory. Evolution has shaped our brains to process scents quickly, giving our ancestors a better chance at survival.

It takes me a fraction of a second to recognize the distinct smell of this time.

My time.

It's so nice and clean, and it burns my lungs in such a familiar way that my eyes begin to prick with tears of joy.

Is this really what I think this is?

Please, please, let it be real!

With only a faint tremor in my hands, I open my eyes.

The Seattle Opera, with its blue curtain and modern lines, greets me, and it's as though I never left. Around me, people in designer outfits—not a full skirt or dropped shoulder in sight—are on their feet, clapping wildly and blocking my view of the stage. But I don't need to see it to know what's there. If I stand up, I just know I'll see the petite Norma and the tall, blond James lookalike taking their curtain call with the rest of the cast.

I briefly close my eyes again and slowly exhale.

Holy shit, it worked!

I didn't die of meningitis after all.

Instead, I took charge and traveled back home.

Better than that, I think I'm back at the almost exact point where I left off.

Who would have thought?!

I quickly run a mental check of my body. No fever, dizziness, or headache… My arms and legs seem to move just fine, and there's no pain of any kind.

Damn it, I feel… amazing!

That lasts all of two seconds—until I remember just one word.

One name.

My shoulders slump as I crash from my dopamine high. The splinter in my chest resumes its relentless, though subtle, nagging.

Maybe it wasn't my own accomplishment that brought me home. Maybe my mission in the past was to stay with him, but I failed, epically, so the universe kicked me out.

I bury my face in my hands and gently massage my temples.

Come on, Bella.

Maybe you dreamed the whole thing.

That would be the only thing in the past five months that makes any sense.

Meanwhile, the applause fades, and the lights gently come up, making me squint. My gaze falls to my outfit: black pants and a black shirt, unchanged from the day I left home so many months ago.

That's when I see it.

Slowly, I turn my left palm upward and let my fingers brush against the ruby of Edward's ring.

XXX

I remain seated until the rows of chairs are nearly empty, then open my purse, which, apparently, has been on my lap the entire time. My phone shows only 20% battery. I immediately switch the Do Not Disturb mode off and dial Alice, but the call goes straight to voicemail. A message pops up on my lock screen:

"Going with Jasper for drinks. Will be home late tonight or hopefully even tomorrow lol. Don't wait for me! I promise your coffee will start on Monday :-P."

I exhale in relief. Don't get me wrong, I miss Alice like crazy, but I'm not ready to face her.

Or anyone else, for that matter.

Grabbing my purse, I hurry outside on unsteady feet. Relying more on muscle memory than deliberate thought, I drift with the crowd along the sidewalk and onto the bus. On autopilot, I get off at my stop and a few minutes later, I find myself in the safety of my apartment.

Finally alone, I numbly wash my hands and pour myself a glass of tap water. It tastes like a swimming pool. Did it always have such a strong chlorine flavor?

Then I just sit on the kitchen barstool for what feels like hours and stare blankly into the dark window.

What should I do now?

The silence of my apartment is deafening.

My first impulse is to open my laptop and start searching… for what, I'm not entirely sure. But my body promptly reminds me that that's not an option. My head feels so heavy, and my eyes ache and itch under the harsh glare of the electric light. Apparently, even though I no longer have meningitis, my brain still demands rest. I take a quick shower, briefly admiring the wonder that is indoor plumbing, and collapse into bed.

The next morning, I wake up somewhat calm and just happy to be home. Everything's fine, I tell myself. I haven't lost anything in this world per se, right? Except for maybe my job—I guess that remains to be seen on Monday.

I get up and search for Alice, but instead, I find another message on my phone.

"Staying with Jasper for another night, will be home on Sunday. Bella, he's so… I'm a goner. Love, Aly."

Smiling, I walk to the kitchen where I force down my breakfast—an allegedly healthier variety of Cheerios that tastes like cardboard, along with a glass of milk. Maybe next time I go shopping, I'll buy some steel-cut oats, or even ingredients and equipment to start making bread…

On the second thought… Nah. It wouldn't be the same as someone serving it to you freshly baked in the morning.

After breakfast, I take a real shower. Sitting on the floor, I let the hot water cascade over me for at least half an hour, while I oscillate between disbelief that I'm truly home and the challenge of accepting that my trip to the past wasn't just a dream. Edward's ring on my finger is real, undeniable proof that I actually time-traveled to 19th-century London.

But… what if I just fell into a deeper version of the rabbit hole, and none of this is real?

That's also a strong possibility.

After my shower, I brush my teeth with my electric toothbrush and blow-dry my hair using my overpriced supersonic hair dryer while marveling yet again at how modern technology makes things effortless and fast. Compared to the 1830s, my life is absurdly comfortable. Basically, it's like living as royalty. No, scratch that, royalty didn't have anything close to this.

Should I remind myself of this in moments of despair? Print it out and stick it on the fridge maybe? Surely, my trip to the past must have served some purpose, even if it's only as a lesson in humility.

Then I finally open my computer.

Where should I start?

In Jack Finney's Time and Again, every time Si Morley returned from the past, he would spend days in the lab with a team analyzing whether his trip had altered history in any way. He'd share random details he remembered from the world he left behind, and the team would compare them to the current reality. Eventually, they did uncover some discrepancies that served as evidence that time travel had changed the course of history, thus creating an alternate timeline.

That's probably what I should try to do with the help of the Internet—something Si Morley didn't have access to in the 70s.

But first things first.

I open Google and type, "Sir Alistair Buchan 1830s."

A chill runs through me when I find a short Wikipedia article.

Alistair Buchan, 1st Baronet of Hartwood Grange, Derbyshire (1791 – 1872) was a British politician and early advocate for suffrage reform in England. Representing the Whig party, he served as a Member of Parliament from 1835 to 1837. His contributions to electoral reform debates highlighted the need for broader voting rights, setting the stage for later suffrage movements.

Buchan was married to Margaret Buchan (née Williams), a noted philanthropist and supporter of his work. The couple had no children. Both were buried at London's Highgate Cemetery in 1872.

It isn't a lot to go by but enough to convince me that these are indeed my Alistair and Maggie. With my hands shaking, I try to dig deeper, hoping to find more about their extended family, but the trail goes cold. There's nothing at all about the noted philanthropist and supporter Margaret Buchan, not to mention her niece Isabella, and even the reference article under Alistair's Wikipedia entry turns out to be either misquoted or nonexistent.

After fifteen minutes of fruitless clicking and typing, I switch to searching for Isabella Dwyer. Nothing. Not even a whisper. Next, I try James Dwyer, Angela Weber, and Benjamin Weber, but they all yield the same negative result. With a frustrated sigh, I lean back in my chair.

Reluctantly, I type, "Edward Masen musician."

A few secondary sources pop up, barely mentioning the name. There are no portraits, no identifying details—nothing that confirms if he's my Edward or just some stranger with the same name.

A sharp pang hits my chest, and I shove away from the keyboard.

He's not your Edward anymore. Hasn't been for 191 years, no matter how long it feels to you.

Get used to it, Bella.

Still, seeing so little information about a musician of Edward's caliber seems weird. How about Rosalie? She was the primadonna of a renowned opera house. There must be some evidence of her work, like posters or programs… somewhere.

I type her name into the search bar, quickly read the first entry, and my heart sinks.

Rosalie Hale (1808 – 1834) was a British-Italian opera singer. Best known for her role as Norma in Bellini's opera of the same name, she was the leading soprano at the Italian Opera House in London in the early 1830s. In 1834, at the height of her career, she mysteriously vanished mid-season, leaving her fate unknown. The police suspected she met a tragic end at the hands of an admirer.

Oh no. She died? And at the hands of an "admirer?"

That's so horrible! I hope it isn't true. I tell myself that she probably ended up becoming a vampire as planned, and that supposed death was just one of those staged endings Edward mentioned. Clearly, the police didn't find the body.

There's an anonymous sketch of her face in the article. It bears some resemblance to Rosalie but it could just as easily be any other beautiful woman.

Again, I find no serious sources to support her Wikipedia entry. All of the other mentions basically just repeat the same. Yep, weird sounds about right.

My thoughts shift to the Volturi. I search for Volterra, hoping to learn something about the ancient town where they lived. Just like in Edward's and Rosalie's cases, the internet appears oddly empty, as though the information has been carefully erased.

Either that or I've become extremely bad at googling.

I spend the rest of the day, and much of the next, plugging random facts into my browser and reading equally random articles, mostly about London in the 1830s, communicable diseases, the invention of water pipes, duels, Members of Parliament, and so on. Then I switch to all the facts and events I know, comparing them with what's written online. It doesn't take long for me to grow tired of this chaotic research, and I realize I may never find out if my time travel changed the future until I stumble across something really obvious.

Like, say, arriving at work on Monday and discovering I'm the Marketing Director and Tanya is my assistant.

That would be a disaster.

Let's hope that my time travel hasn't created any parallel timelines then.

By the time Sunday evening rolls around, I'm hunched over my computer with my fourth bowl of cereal sitting nearby, still fighting what feels like time-traveler's jetlag, when Alice finally comes home. She breezes through the door while going on and on about her whirlwind romance with Jasper—how amazing he is, how perfectly he gets her, and how fate brought them together. There's a sparkle in her eyes that I've never seen before. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to notice how off I am. I wrap her in a tight hug and tell her I missed her, which is completely true.

She returns my hug with force you wouldn't expect from someone so tiny.

"So, what did you do, did you spend the night at his place?" I ask, reeling inside at the normalcy of our conversation. "No, wait, that was two nights, right? Did you guys…?"

"It's not like that… yet," Alice says quietly, a rare flicker of uncertainty in her voice. "We just talked and slept in the same bed. I think… I think there might be some kind of health issue, but I don't want to push him. Even if there is, I don't care." Her voice is firm with conviction. "I want to be with him, Bella. He's everything!"

It's strange seeing Alice both so excited and so unsure. I already picture the conversation I'll have with this Jasper, telling him he'd better not even think about hurting her. Because if he does, there'll be consequences.

Monday morning arrives, and what can I say? After months of leisure, it's finally time to head back to work and actually be on time for once.

Living the life of the 19th-century gentry did have its perks, cholera notwithstanding, I murmur to myself as I hastily brush my teeth, put on my work clothes, and hurry downstairs.

The whole time, I do my best not to dwell on how utterly unprepared I am to face the world, let alone Mr. Cullen—if he even exists now. I just pray that he's not at the office today, and if, by some cruel cosmic joke, he is, that I miraculously manage to avoid him.

When I step outside, Seattle assaults me with the roar of endless cars, rushing pedestrians, and distant sirens. For a moment, it's overwhelming—too busy, too fast, too loud. But then I notice that our favorite coffee shop is still perched on the corner. The barely visible skyline is dotted with the same metallic-gray towers, and the signature Pacific Northwest drizzle still clings to my neck no matter how high I raise the collar of my jacket. Even if they're not exactly the coziest things on earth (except for the coffee shop, obviously), their familiarity offers me a small dose of reassurance.

As I settle into my desk on the 11th floor of Cullen Platt, the feeling of being an imposter hits me harder than ever.

Which, you must admit, is a considerable achievement for someone who has just spent five months impersonating another woman.

Garrett swivels in his chair. For a moment, he studies me, his gaze suspicious but not unfriendly. If anything, there's a curiosity in his eyes—a detail that instantly makes me nervous for reasons I can't quite explain.

"Hey, Bella, you're early today," he greets me cheerfully.

I glance at my watch. It's exactly 9 am. Inwardly rolling my eyes, I mumble something resembling a "hi," hoping he'll turn back to whatever he was doing. Judging by his screen, it's Minesweeper. Seriously, who plays Minesweeper at 9 am on a Monday? But maybe that's just his way of easing into a "hard, productive week," or whatever.

Unfortunately, he doesn't seem inclined to leave me alone.

"Listen, did something happen between you and Tanya last Friday?" he asks.

Sweat immediately breaks through the layers of antiperspirant I dutifully applied this morning. "No… not really… Why? Did something happen?"

Has she already fired me and spread the news? That would be unnecessarily cruel, but not exactly unheard of in this economy. I quickly reach for my computer's power button to check if I can still log in.

"Nothing happened," Garrett says, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Except this morning, when I came in early as usual, I heard Tanya and Mr. Cullen shouting at each other in her office. And…" He pauses dramatically, his eyes gleaming, "I think I heard your name."

"What?!" I yelp, my voice echoing across the office. Heads snap up at the noise. Most people turn right back to their screens when they see it's just me, but a few stares linger. If their surprised faces are any indication, Garrett wasn't the only one who witnessed the executive disagreement.

Wonderful.

"I'm telling you, something went down. Tanya seemed really upset after Mr. Cullen stormed out. Then she left, too, and slammed the door on her way out. She even took her purse," he adds, raising an eyebrow as though this detail means something huge.

"Um, yeah, I have no idea what this is all about," I murmur, trying not to make eye contact. My cheeks heat up like a bonfire.

"Sure, you don't," Garrett says, grinning. "Anyway, this all happened fifteen minutes ago, and she hasn't come back. Gonna be an interesting week." He winks at me, still friendly, and then finally returns to his screen.

"Wait!" I blurt, suddenly realizing I need more info. "Are you positive they mentioned my name? What exactly did you hear?"

Without looking away from his game, Garrett shrugs. "All I caught was Tanya yelling your name—I think it was your name—and then Mr. Cullen practically screamed 'Never!' After that, they got really quiet, and then it ended. That's all I got." He shrugs again.

I log into my computer without a hitch and force myself to focus on the job, shelving any speculation about the strange news for later.

Mondays in the office are always chaotic. By the time we start, our European offices are shutting down, and our East Coast people are already at lunch. As a result, my inbox is overflowing with emails before I've even had my coffee, making it feel like I'm constantly playing catch-up. I take a deep breath and open the first email.

It feels both familiar and surreal—like coming home after a long stay somewhere where you never had to drive. When you finally slide behind the wheel, you're not sure if you remember what to do until you turn the key and muscle memory kicks in, smooth and instinctive. I quickly tackle the most urgent tasks, paying extra attention to details. No rogue barcodes are slipping past me today! Then I dive into the budget spreadsheet, only coming up for air when I realize it's already noon. Feeling uncharacteristically proud of my extraordinary adaptability and positive attitude, I begin to think that maybe my job isn't so terrible after all.

Perhaps my time-traveling detour was exactly what I needed to grow up and see my work for what it really is—just a job, a paycheck, a means to an end. There's no existential tragedy in doing it, and it's not that hard, honestly. I don't have to clean anyone else's chamber pots or, even worse, marry some guy for financial security. It's comfortable and safe, and someone even wipes down my desk and empties my trash bin every night, which is more than I do for myself at home.

Perspective, Bella.

At 12:45 pm, I realize I'm starving. There's a spot next door that sells "better" sandwiches, but they stop taking orders at 1 pm sharp. Without wasting a second, I dart to the elevator and slip in just as the doors are closing, not even bothering to check if it's heading up or down. My voice comes out squeaky from the sprint as I blurt, "Press one, please," between breaths.

Then I hear someone chuckle, low and amused, and my world tilts.

The moment his unique scent hits me in the confined space, it's like the first time all over again.

My knees wobble, and I have a fleeting thought that the phrase, "Her knees began to shake," isn't just for romance novels. You know, the ones with lines like, "Every nerve in her body seemed to hum in response to his nearness," or, "His touch sent electric sparks across her skin."

Turns out, seeing the love of your life for the first time post-breakup can do the trick, too.

I freeze for a fraction of a second and then slowly turn to face him.

He looks… good.

Really good.

Instead of the Victorian frock coat I last saw him in, he's in a dark gray suit that has to be tailored. Although, vaguely, I think that with a body like his, maybe he just makes anything look custom-made. A crisp white shirt peeks out beneath the jacket.

Edward's posture is relaxed, but his face tells a completely different story. It's tense and… something else. Searching, maybe? His full lips, vivid red against his pale skin, press together in a tight, anxious line. And his eyes are dark today, almost black, with faint purple shadows underneath that weren't there the last time I saw him in this time.

That was on Friday. Or rather, many months ago?

I shake my head to clear it.

Edward gives me a tentative smile but says nothing.

It's as if he's leaving the ball in my court, letting me decide how this goes.

Or maybe that's just me overthinking it. Maybe he doesn't remember me at all, and is simply being nice to a stranger in an elevator. Or perhaps he's just Edward Cullen, the very human CEO of Cullen Platt who is completely unaware of Edward Masen, the vampire pianist who lived 200 years ago—or in my dream anyway.

Damn it. What do I do?

I clear my throat and say, "Hello, Mr. Cullen."

.

.

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