The Echo of Time

I step out of the machine and throw a tarp over the top, hiding it from view inside the once-dilapidated, now brand-new barn. I’m the first time traveler to successfully reach my mission year, and hopefully the first to make it home in one piece.

I check my holo-watch and skim through my mission once more: Observe what really happened to the activist Henry Taylor on June 14, 1847. Key word: observe. Do not interfere. With anything in this timeline or there could be severe consequences.

“They” decided that the best course of action for me would be to spend a year observing him. So, here I am. Exactly one year from the fateful day. So now, I only have to find him.

According to the historical texts, he spent most of his time either at his home organizing his thoughts and rallies, or rallying in the town square. And that’s where I decide to start— the town square.

I press the record button on the leg of my round, metal frame glasses and watch closely, my heart pounding in my chest as I watch the rally closely. I don’t pay too close attention to what he’s saying, having the option to re-watch the rally later, but I do monitor the crowd and search for anyone suspicious.

That’s when I see her.

A beautiful young woman at the back of the crowd. Her curly blonde hair pulled up into a bun atop her head, pieces cascading over her forehead, framing her heart-shaped face. Rouge dots her cheeks and deepens the crimson-color of her lips. She smiles at me with an elegant confidence I had yet to see. She picks up her skirt and steps away from the crowd in my direction.

My heart begins to pound as the woman approaches. Her beauty stuns me to my core and the reason for my being here quickly blurs in my mind.

“Hello there, stranger.” She greets. “New to town?”

I quickly clear my throat and attempt to gather my thoughts before replying, “Yes, ma’am. Just blew in.” I say in my best period-accurate accent.

“I’m Margaret, but most call me ‘Margie.’ Let me know if you need a guide around town. I’d more than happy to help.” She sticks out her hand, palm down.

I take her hand in mine and squeeze it lightly, “It’s a pleasure, Margie. I’m Thomas.” I rub my thumb gently over the back of her hand and give her pleasant smile. “If you have time, I’d love to take you up on the offer.”

“Where ‘ya stayin’?” She grips my hand firmly in her, not allowing me to let go. Her forwardness and certainty is unexpected for the time-period.

“I’m not sure yet.” I admit sheepishly.

“Well, my momma runs the inn just in town. Why don’t we head over together?” She begins to pull me along the dusty road before I can answer. But I don’t mind.

---

The following months spent with Margie were a blissful dream. I spent the day following around Henry, gathering the information I needed, and spent my evenings in the arms of the most gorgeous lover I’d ever known.

She led me to the meadow just outside of town, only a short horseback ride away. In the spring, it was alive with wildflowers. A centuries-old oak tree stood silently in the center. A witness to love stories of the past, its bark etched with memories of countless couples. We carved our initials into its weathered trunk, a promise to remember these days forever.

But as the time for my departure ticked closer, my heart began to shatter. Scientifically, I had already made a huge misstep, getting involved so heavily with her. But it was the best decision I’d ever made.

I couldn’t stay, no matter how badly I wanted to be with Margie. To get married, have children, and grow old together. But it was just something that I couldn’t do. I had to go back to my own time.

I signed my name on the bottom of the letter I left for her. Telling her to live her life to the fullest. Get married like she wants, have a lot of children, grow old with the man she chooses. And forget me.

I explained how heart-shattering leaving her is. How much I wished things were different, and how badly I wanted to stay by her side but couldn’t. I wished her a life of happiness and joy.

Tears streamed down my face as I entered the machine that would hopefully bring home, the report I had made on Henry tightly squeezed in my fist. I looked over the dark night of the small town that I’d grown so find of.

Maybe when I returned to the future, I would seek out the ancient oak tree where Margie and I spent the spring, making love and watching the clouds pass by.

My heart fell to my stomach as I strapped myself in, and pressed the buttons that would take me home, my face melancholy.

Upon arriving home, I did just what I decided I’d do. I took all of my PTO and set out to find the tree, hoping it’d still be there centuries later.

The town had long been re-named and absorbed into a larger metroplex, the tree long cut down. But hidden inside a tiny museum, pictures of all of the names that had been carved into the trees flesh, remained. I stood staring at the photo of mine and Margie’s initials surrounded in a heart, reminiscing on my time with her.

“It was such a sweet sentiment, wasn’t it?” An eerily familiar voice asks sweetly from behind me.

Shocked, I turned to see the face of the woman I loved not too long ago, but centuries ago at the same time. She was just as beautiful as the day I’d left her. My heart shattered into millions of pieces once more, but her smile glued them back together.

I knew that she wasn’t my Margie, but God did she look and sound just like her.

“Yeah…” I finally reply with a trembling voice.

“That large one in the middle was carved by one of my ancestors. My great-grandmother’s grandmother.” She smiled. “She always told me how much I looked like her.”

You do.

“I’m Thomas.” I stick out my hand suddenly, and she takes it in a gripping handshake.

“Maura. It’s really great to meet you, Thomas.” Her confidence just the same.

She begins to show me around the museum. Explaining each piece in great detail. Her knowledge and intelligence breathtaking.

It was easy to forget where I was and what I was really doing— searching for a long-dead love.

But I knew what would happen when I left.

Maura, though, her looks, voice and confidence were so similar to Margie’s that it was easy to forget who I was talking to. Maura’s differences were glaring, but not the slightest bit odious. She was, in some ways, even more amazing. Not held back by the social requirements of the 1800’s. She was a strong woman, capable of so much and doing everything that she loved.

We stopped at the last display, and I watched her speak so enthusiastically about the piece she was describing. I hung on to her every word. Enamored by the woman before me.

When she finally finished, she beamed, a golden aura surrounding her. I was utterly stunned by the modern woman and asked a few questions to show that I’d been listening.

When we finally quieted, I garnered every ounce of confidence I had and asked, “Sorry for being so forward, Maura, but would you like to get dinner sometime?” I ask, unable to keep my ecstatic heart from calming.

“That sounds nice.” She replied happily, as if she’d been waiting for me to ask.

©️T.L. Ryan 2024. All rights reserved.