The night was unusually quiet, the kind that makes one feel as if the world had stopped breathing. Ethan Carter sat in his small apartment, a cup of coffee in hand, scrolling through old books he had collected over the years. History fascinated him—especially the mysteries that remained unsolved.
Then, the knock came.
A slow, deliberate knock, as if the person on the other side was unsure whether they should be there at all. Ethan hesitated before answering. When he finally opened the door, a man stood there, drenched in rain, his clothes out of place—too formal, too antique. A long coat, a vest, boots caked in mud. His face was lean, his eyes carrying something Ethan couldn't quite place—something lost in time.
"Can I come in?" the man asked.
There was something about him—an eerie familiarity that made Ethan step aside without questioning.
The man entered, glancing around as if everything was foreign to him. His fingers brushed the fabric of the couch, the smooth surface of the television screen, the glowing numbers on the digital clock. Then he turned to Ethan.
"I need your help," he said. "I think I’ve traveled too far."
Ethan frowned. "Traveled?"
"Through time," the man said. "I was supposed to arrive in 1890, but I miscalculated. The machine malfunctioned. I ended up here."
Ethan let out a short laugh, thinking it was a joke. But the man’s expression didn’t waver. And then he did something that sent a shiver down Ethan’s spine—he pulled out a small, metallic device from his pocket, something that looked far too intricate for the 19th century. It had gears, tiny glowing symbols, and a soft humming sound.
"This is what brought me here," the man whispered.
Ethan sat down, his mind racing. "You’re saying… you’re from the past?"
"From 1850."
A long silence filled the room.
The man’s name was James Whitmore, a scientist from London who had been part of an underground experiment—one that history had no record of. He had spent years working on a theory that time could be traversed, that the past and future were not set in stone but fluid, waiting to be shaped. But something had gone wrong.
Now, he was here—alone in a world that had moved too fast for him to catch up.
"I had a family," James murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "A wife. A son. I only meant to be gone for a few hours." He looked at Ethan, desperation in his eyes. "Help me go back."
Ethan exhaled. "I don’t know how."
James tightened his grip on the device. "I only need to repair it. But I need something from my time. Something that doesn’t exist now."
Ethan had never felt more helpless. He wanted to believe James. But if he was telling the truth… how did one help a man return to a time long gone?
The days passed. James struggled to adjust. He marveled at the city but grew distant whenever he saw families together. The loneliness in his eyes was haunting.
One evening, as Ethan watched him stare at an old black-and-white photograph from a history book, he asked, "What if you can’t go back?"
James closed his eyes. "Then my son will grow up thinking I abandoned him. My wife… she’ll wait for me until she realizes I’m never coming back." His voice broke. "They’ll think I didn’t love them enough to stay."
Ethan swallowed the lump in his throat. He had never seen someone carry such an unbearable grief—one that stretched across time itself.
Then, one night, the device flickered to life.
James worked on it relentlessly, using whatever tools he could find. Ethan helped where he could, though most of it was beyond his understanding. And then—just like that—the machine hummed louder, its symbols glowing brighter.
"It’s ready," James whispered.
They stood in Ethan’s small apartment, both knowing what this meant. If James left, there was no guarantee he would make it back to 1850. He could end up somewhere else—or nowhere at all.
James looked at Ethan. "Thank you. You were the first person in this world to believe me."
Ethan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
James pressed a sequence on the device. A soft hum filled the room, and then—just before the light engulfed him—he whispered, "If I don’t make it… tell them I tried."
And then—he was gone.
Ethan stood in the silence that followed, staring at the empty space where James had been. The room felt colder, as if a part of time itself had been erased.
For weeks, Ethan searched history books, records—anything that could confirm whether James had returned. But there was nothing. No mention of his disappearance. No records of his experiment. It was as if he had never existed.
And then, one day, a letter arrived.
The envelope was old, the ink slightly faded. But the date at the top made Ethan’s heart stop.
October 12, 1851.
With trembling hands, he unfolded the letter.
"Ethan,
I made it back. Not to the exact moment I left—but close enough. My wife knew me. My son… he still remembers me. I wanted you to know—your belief in me saved my life. If you ever find yourself lost in time, remember—there will always be someone willing to believe in you.
James Whitmore."
Ethan stared at the letter, his mind spinning. How had it reached him? How had it survived all these years?
Then, at the bottom, in small handwriting, was a final note.
"Look under the floorboard by the fireplace."
Heart pounding, Ethan moved to the fireplace, pried open the loose floorboard—and there, buried beneath the dust, was the device.
But it was broken. Rusted. As if it had been there for centuries.
Ethan sat back, his breath shaky.
James had made it back.
But had he left the device there for Ethan?
Or… had Ethan left it there for James?
The question lingered, unanswered, lost in time.
It's remained the Mystry Weather Ethan Time travelled or James.........
