Lost In Time

★ Chapter 1 — Awakening in the Unknown

Groaning in discomfort, I slowly sit up, feeling disoriented as a pounding headache throbs in my temples and my vision blurs, making everything appear hazy. As I regain consciousness, my gaze fixes on the vibrant indigo hue of the sky stretching above me, and I realize I’m lying in the midst of a vast meadow. The earth feels unsteady beneath me as I muster the strength to rise, as though a locomotive has mercilessly collided with my body, despite having had a seemingly restful night’s sleep. Trying to make sense of my surroundings, I survey the unfamiliar meadow that sprawls before me, its essence a peculiar blend of familiarity and otherworldliness.

With mounting confusion and panic seizing my chest, I mutter in a trembling voice, almost afraid to hear the answer, “Am I… dead?” The haunting question lingers momentarily before I forcefully dismiss the morbid thought, willing myself to calm down. “No, no, you’re not dead,” I whisper with determination, attempting to quell the rising tide of fear. Collecting my waning courage, I choose a direction and start walking, hoping against hope to stumble upon some form of assistance in this bewildering place.

After a few aimless minutes of trudging through the ethereal landscape, a bustling town unexpectedly materializes on the horizon. An air of carefree bliss permeates the atmosphere as I cautiously approach, mesmerized by the kaleidoscope of colors adorning the townsfolk’s attire, unlike anything I’ve ever encountered before. A mixture of awe and bewilderment consumes me as I meander through the vibrant streets, attempting to decode the enigma of my circumstances. Then, like a beacon in the chaos, a quaint diner beckons me, its entrance promising respite from the disarray swirling within me.

As I step inside, a symphony of mouthwatering aromas instantly envelops my senses, tantalizing my nostrils and stirring a hunger I hadn’t realized existed. Navigating towards the counter, I’m greeted by a warm-hearted lady, her eyes reflecting kindness and empathy. Seizing the opportunity, I implore her with a tremor of desperation in my voice, “Please, could you enlighten me about my whereabouts?”

A knowing smile graces her lips as she replies, “Welcome to Lomzam.” Recognition dawns upon me, and I nod in silent acknowledgement, realizing that Lomzam lies not too far from the vicinity of the college I had been attending.

Within the cozy confines of the diner, I allow myself a momentary respite, taking in the sights and sounds that surround me. Amidst the bustling activity, my gaze intersects with a mysterious figure across the room. His ebony tresses cascade effortlessly, framing piercing sapphire eyes that seem to peer into the depths of my soul. A peculiar familiarity permeates the air, tugging at my heartstrings. Despite the turbulence of confusion and disorientation that engulfs me, an inexplicable tranquility washes over me, whispering assurances that perhaps everything will ultimately be alright.

However, appearances deceive, for nothing is as it seems. Concern etches across the kind lady’s face as she addresses me, her voice dripping with empathy, “Are you okay there, sweetheart?”

Summoning my scattered thoughts back to the present moment, I hastily avert my gaze from the enigmatic figure, catching sight of the diner’s timepiece in the corner of my eye. My heart sinks as I read the date, etched into the clock’s face like an unwelcome revelation: March 03, 1964, 10:00 A.M. Disbelief and confusion surge within me, and I can’t help but murmur, “I think your clock‘s broken.”

A soft chuckle escapes the lady’s lips, imbued with a gentle reassurance, “No, it’s ticking just fine.”

My bewilderment intensifies, and I muster the courage to voice my disconcerting realization, “But it’s the year 2018.”

With a subtle smile playing on her lips, tinged with compassion, she offers her response, “Are you sure you’re alright, honey? It’s the year 1964.” The weight of her words presses upon me, forcing my eyes shut tight, attempting to reconcile the inconceivable reality unfolding before me.

No, this cannot be right.

Only a jest or a twisted prank can explain this absurdity.

Determined to expose the hidden cameras and unveil the practical joke, I adopt a flat, unyielding tone, pressing my lips together while surveying the room with suspicion, desperately searching for the concealed evidence. “Alright, you won. Where are the cameras?” I retort, my arms crossing defensively as my gaze scans every nook and cranny, hoping to decipher the elaborate ruse.

“Take a breath, calm down,” her voice resonates with genuine concern. “Would you like me to contact your family?”

Numbly, I nod, rattling off the numbers to her in a futile attempt to ground myself. Yet, as her expression morphs into one of deep concern, she delivers a heartbreaking truth, “Sweetie, there ain’t no number like that.”

Grateful for her futile effort, I offer my gratitude before exiting the diner, my mind clouded with the weight of the unknown, wrestling with the question of what to do next. Overwhelmed and adrift in an era not my own, I find myself slumping onto a bench outside, heaving a heavy sigh that feels burdensome with the weight of my predicament. Lost, a word that now encapsulates the turmoil swirling within me, echoing the depth of my confusion and despair.

A voice pierces through the air, drawing my attention from the depths of my distress. Shielding my eyes from the scorching sun with a raised hand, I meet the gaze of a young boy, seemingly around my age, as he approaches with purposeful strides. Curiosity laces my words as I inquire, “Do I know you?”

He comes to a stop before me, a warm smile lighting up his features as he replies, “Sorry, I thought you looked like someone I knew.”

A flicker of recognition sparks within me as he mentions a name that resonates deeply, “Faith?” The word reverberates through my mind, and I realize it’s my mother’s name. If the year truly is 1964, then she should be a child in this era.

“Yes,” I respond, my voice carrying a blend of curiosity and disbelief.

Taking a step closer, he extends his hand towards me, introducing himself, “Come on, let’s go. I’ll take you there. By the way, I’m David.”

As his name leaves his lips, my mind conjures a tapestry of emotions and foreknowledge, the tragic fate that awaits him. Helplessness envelops me as I yearn to alter destiny, to spare him from the heartache that awaits. Yet, I must suppress my inner turmoil, instead choosing to say, “No, but I’ve heard Faith mention you.” It feels surreal to refer to my mother by her first name, bridging the gap between the past and the present.

Navigating through the winding streets, we arrive at a house that evokes a sense of timelessness, its beauty transcending the boundaries of eras. A figure emerges from within, and as I study her closely, a jolt of realization electrifies me. She bears an uncanny resemblance to my grandmother, a younger version of the woman I’ve known only through faded photographs. Holy s**t! It’s her! She is my grandmother. The true extent of her beauty, previously captured in still images, pales in comparison to her vibrant presence.

Intrigued by my presence, she directs her gaze towards me, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity, “And who might you be?”

Nerves tinged with embarrassment tinge my response as I stumble over my words, “Oh, I’m Juliet.”

A mischievous smile dances upon her lips as she playfully quips, “And he must be Romeo.” Her humor remains intact, a familiar thread connecting past and present.

Welcoming us into her abode, she gestures for us to take a seat, her eyes radiating warmth and acceptance. “You’ve got a lovely house,” I offer sincerely as I step inside, appreciating the constancy it provides amidst the temporal turbulence. Grandma has managed to preserve its essence throughout the years.

Engaging in conversation, my grandmother beckons my mother to join us. The question hangs in the air, inviting an explanation for the connection between David and me. Before he can utter a word, my mother interjects, her voice laced with a touch of surprise, “Juliet, hey!” The slip of calling her ‘mom’ fills me with an odd mixture of comfort and displacement, a reminder of the intricate web of time that binds us all.

Grandma’s curiosity takes hold as she observes our interaction, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “How do you two know each other?” she inquires, urging us to share our connection.

David’s response catches me off guard, his voice filled with sincerity, “We don’t, but I’ve heard Faith talk about her.”

Relief washes over me, grateful for the convenient explanation that eliminates the need for elaborate cover stories. Yet, beneath the surface, a melancholic truth lingers—knowledge of the hardships that lie ahead for David, an unavoidable tragedy I am powerless to alter. Suppressing my inner turmoil, I respond, “Yes, I’m the new neighbor’s daughter. I’ll be staying with you for two months while my parents are on a business trip.”

Realization dawns upon me, the weight of my words sinking in. To them, I am a mere neighbor’s daughter, but in truth, I am displaced in time, a traveler from the future grappling with an inexplicable journey.

Aware of my slip, my grandmother raises an eyebrow, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do I look old to you?” she questions, her hands resting on her hips.

Panic courses through me, and I stumble to rectify my mistake, my words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to recover, “No, you’re not. You just… you remind me of my… um, grandma?” The words hang in the air, an unspoken apology etched across my features.

“So I do look old,” she jests, her chuckle easing my embarrassment, while my mother joins in with a snicker, and David, too, smiles beside me, enchanted by the familial banter.

“You can call me Marie,” she says, breaking the tension, and I nod, softly murmuring “Marie,” feeling a genuine warmth toward her.

“Now, let’s get you out of that outfit,” she declares, her eyes assessing my attire. I can’t blame her; I must appear entirely out of place in this time period.

Before Marie can summon her daughter, my mom intervenes, saying, “Don’t worry, I got it.”

“How does a mini skirt with Go-go boots sound? Or maybe bell-bottoms?” my mom asks, grabbing my hands and pulling me up, a smile spreading across my face, but not before catching a glimpse of The Flintstones playing on the television.

It seems I’ve truly been transported to the ‘60s.