The first thing you noticed was the cloud of warmth enveloping you. It felt cosy, and for some reason your body seemed to be acting as if it had had the chance to relax so thoroughly for the first time in ages. You stayed wrapped up in that cocoon of sheets, trying to shield yourself from the morning chill and soothe a migraine. The air was freezing; could it be that the coldest season of the year had already arrived? You tossed and turned in bed, cursing yourself for forgetting to close the window the night before. A few rays of light filtered through the shutters, dimly illuminating the room.
The air rushed out of your lungs and your heart seemed to slow down as you looked around. This wasn’t your room.
Goodness, your room had never been so bare! Feeling your heart pounding, you leapt out of bed and threw open the shutters.
You were blinded by the light. The room was on the second floor, offering a view over some unfamiliar square. Pedestrians and carriages passed along the streets, then disappeared between the buildings and headed who knows where. You stood motionless, paralysed for what seemed like an eternity. Only when a maid in the building opposite opened the windows and looked at you with an equally bewildered expression did you hasten to close the window.
Were you really here? You could have sworn that everything you’d experienced in the last twenty-four hours was the result of alcohol and lack of sleep. You sighed, as a shiver ran down your spine. Why were you in an inn? What had happened last night that you couldn’t remember? What were that man’s intentions? The air seemed to turn to lead. Could it be that he had some interest in you? After all, it would have been a walk in the park for him to make you disappear. In that century, you didn’t exist; you were nobody. If you had disappeared, nobody would have noticed.
You headed for the door, making sure to keep your pace brisk and quick. You turned the handle, surprised to see the door open and the corridor deserted. Perhaps he didn’t mean any harm, you mused as you walked down the corridor. However, you had no desire to blindly trust a stranger, nor to stop long enough to find out whether your paranoia was justified or not.
But where would you go? What kind of world would you find outside those four walls? And how would it treat someone like you, who was clearly out of place? Pushing all rational thought aside, you crossed the corridor as quickly as possible and slipped down the stairs. Casting a quick glance at the dining area, you thanked your lucky stars that most of last night’s patrons were either absent or barely awake.
So you left, with no destination other than the desire to get away. Perhaps it was an irrational choice, or the remnants of an ancient instinct driving you to survive. Of course, you weren’t used to living without a home, and if that Moran had actually had good intentions, then you would have been a bit of a dickhead, leaving others to foot the bill. But despite this, you didn’t stop, neither in the face of the unease lingering in your heart nor even when you heard the innkeeper calling out to you.
On Friday mornings, the old man walked down Drury Lane. It was a fact nobody would have questioned: the grass is green, the sky is blue, and every friday at nine sixteen, that old man walked down Drury Lane with the precision of a Swiss watch. Not that anyone would have been interested in questioning it, nor in watching some old man’s morning stroll for more than a few seconds.
That day it was rainy, with torrents of water pouring down on the city without any mercy. Normally, after running his errands, the old man would have gone straight home, but not that day. It so happened that, for one reason or another—perhaps due to roadworks or a strike—not a single carriage was to be seen that day. So the old man stood there, beneath a portico, as if waiting for something to happen.
“Ah, fuck” you sighed with a curse, crossing the road with quick strides and praying with the fragile hope that your foot wouldn’t sink into a fatal puddle. God, you knew the weather in England was awful—every media outlet, travel vlog or documentary kept mentioning it—yet you hadn’t expected it to be this bad now that the sky had suddenly gone from clear to bringing down the heavens.
Come to think of it, perhaps you should've thought things more carefully while wandering around the city or before tipping off Moran. But right now, as you were running along the cobbled streets, you couldn't afford to waste a single second crying over spilt milk—instead, you had to decide what to do.
You retreated beneath a desolate porch, home only to a tannery, a bakery and a few small shops you couldn’t quite make out. The place was deserted, in an almost surreal way now that most people had taken shelter indoors. You sat down on the ground, uncharactely indifferent to what you might find on the pavement of a Victorian street.
Despite the cold, the road was comfortable. Ever since you’d arrived in this place, in this timeline, you’d always been careful not to betray yourself, and now, after what had seemed like an eternity, you had the chance to lift that veil, if only for a moment.
It’s pleasant, almost comfortable as— a cloth? You blinked, and there really was a cloth a few centimetres from your face. In front of you, the fabric—or rather, the hand holding it—remained motionless, as if waiting. You looked up to find an old man standing before you. A few seconds of silence passed, so deep that your ears picked up the indistinct fragments of chatter three blocks away.
“… You’ll end up catching a cold, you know,” he explained, looking somewhat embarrassed at your questioning gaze.
You took the cloth, muttering a quick thank you, and then rubbed its rough surface against your skin. The man in front of you seemed to hesitate for a moment. “If you’d like, I could accompany you home”
You shook your head. “I’m not from around here,” you replied, flinging the cloth vehemently onto your lap as if it had personally offended you.
The old man started. “Oh no, I meant I could call you a carriage and take you to your hotel,” he exclaimed, waving a hand in front of him with fervent vigour.
You blinked slowly, smiling awkwardly. “I’m not staying in a hotel.”
“Then to your hostel or, I don’t know, your home.”
“I don’t have either of those,” you sighed. Your smile turned into a grimace. “Look, there’s no address I can give you.”
The man’s expression shifted from confusion to a hint of compassion, though as soon as he noticed your glare, he was quick to hide it. “Don’t worry, anyway,” you added, swallowing your pride. If you really had to pass for homeless, then you’d see your act through to the end. “I’ll just keep wandering around the area then—”
“W-wait! You can’t do that! I mean, you’ll end up in a workhouse if the police caught you ” He hastened to explain after seeing the bitter note in your gaze. “Besides it’s a miracle you haven’t been arrested yet.
So that’s why people had been giving you dirty looks ever since you arrived here? At first you thought it was because of your clothes – after all, that was only natural, given that you were a time traveller or whatever. Seriously, it was only when you found yourself amongst those people that you realised just how ridiculous your everyday clothes must have looked to people of this era, being clearly too cheap and practical to belong to a bourgeoisie, yet at the same time too brightly coloured and expensive to be the clothes of a factory worker. With this concern on your mind, you had therefore snatched the first cloak that came to hand, displayed outside one of the many shacks in the neighbourhood. Those clothes were a curse, a target on your body. So who on earth would have said anything to you for acting out of necessity?
As your thoughts raced through your mind with the same frantic energy of a bird trapped in a cage, you heard a sound to your left. Glancing in that direction, you saw that the old man had moved closer to you and had slumped down onto the ground a few steps away. “Are you all right?” you asked with concern.
“Yes, I’ll keep her company for a while.” You didn’t object to that. “Goddammit, it looks like it’s never going to stop raining,” he sighed, probably more to himself than to you.
“Is it often like this, the weather?” you asked. In the distance, the storm continued to rage; raindrops kept pelting everything in their path, and occasionally thunder rumbled in the distance. In a way, you envied it. Sure, the wind was venting all its fury at that moment. But unlike it, you had no way of giving voice to the turmoil lurking within your soul.
You looked out beyond the porch, sighing. Setting the sentimentalism aside, this didn't change the fact that, right now, you had nothing to do.
“Not really, ” replied the old man. “This season is rather peculiar. I suppose you’re not used to this kind of weather.”
You opened your mouth to reply, you didn't know exactly what. No, you weren't used to it, given that you came not only from abroad but also from at least a hundred years in the future. Even if the geographical difference hadn't affected the climate you were used to, you were sure that climate change would've taken care of it anyway.
But before you could even blurt out the first lie that sprang to mind in a bid to get away with it, someone seemed to have other ideas. That someone being none other than your stomach.
A gurgle who intended to compete with the thunder broke the silence with the brazen temperament of one who is not afraid to be heard, only to be met by more silence. For a moment, in those quiet moments, you wondered whether you should say something or blame it on the storm.
“Are you hungry?” he inquired. You nodded solemnly, no longer trusting your own voice in the midst of such shame. Feeling the old man’s gaze upon you, you cursed for the first time in your life that an old man could still hear so clearly. “Let’s go and get you something to eat.”
Despite all your protests— Oh, I could surely have made it through the day without eating you didn't have to worry about me, you're too kind but I can manage without it after all I don't need it. And so, there you were in a diner once again, taking advantage of a stranger's kindness against your will. God, how could this old man be so stubborn? Seriously, you’d tried every trick in the book to get rid of him. You’d started with morality (‘Eh? You’re not hungry, you say? Come on, my ears still work just fine’) to financial practicality (’You can’t pay me back, you say? Come on, I’m not doing this for the money!’).
And so there you were, sitting at a table, staring at the plate that had been served to you as if it were forbidden fruit. You studied the old man, the room and the grain of the wood, as if to prove that your resolve could not be shaken. “No,” you said, pushing the plate towards him. “I’ve already caused you too much trouble; you take it.”
You shamelessly threw yourself into it, tucking into a hearty meal after what had felt like a lifetime. And just like that, the fantasy vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Alas, what could you have said? Despite your stubbornness, you were weak in the face of temptation.
“So why are you here, anyway? he suddenly asked halfway through the meal.
Your mind snapped to attention, having long since forgotten he was there. Did he really have to ask these questions without any warning? “Where here?” you asked, hoping to buy yourself a few more nanoseconds so your brain could come up with something.
“Here, in London,” explained the old man. “The city has become quite popular in recent years, but... well, you don't look like a traveler,” he added hesitantly after a brief pause.
...Do I really look that much like a homeless person? “Well, I was here on a trip, but some incidents happened...” In your mind, you applauded yourself. Although you didn't answer anything, you admired your own confidence. You glanced quickly at the door, praying to a higher power that your ordeal would end soon. What could you do now? While you believed your lies were credible enough, you certainly didn't trust how you'd deliver them.
So you sat there, feeling like a condemned criminal on the gallows whilst hoping for the best. You recounted many things to him, such as how your mother had apparently given birth to you at sea (which is why there are no documents about you basically) and how, after losing your parents at a young age, it was your grandfather who raised you in the countryside, before you decided to set off for London and ended up being pickpocketed.
You spoke, blending your longing for your era with your sense of loss, weaving truth and falsehood the best you could. He seemed to take it in his stride, showing you compassion—though he wasn’t very expressive—and offering you some comfort when he could. You felt guilty for lying so shamelessly to someone who was clearly good-hearted, but there wasn’t much you could do about it at that moment.
Slowly, the conversation shifted moving on to more mundane topics.
He told you his name, what he did for a living, and how long he’d been in town. You talked about London, your homelands, and his love for cats. For a moment, it felt as though you’d returned to your everyday life, as if you were catching up with an old acquaintance rather than a stranger.
The bell at the shop's door rang. You glanced quickly at the door, having caught a fleeting movement with the corner of your eye.
You felt your blood run cold; your eyes darted to the now-empty plate. No, no, no—what were the chances that this could happen?
You swallowed in vain, trying in vain to quell your ever-growing anxiety. Should you run away? Or pretend nothing was wrong? The only thing you knew was that you didn’t want anything to do with anyone from this era.
Your eyes returned to the old man, finding him staring at you in confusion. “I’m… I’m fine,” you cleared your throat. How much of your panic had he seen? Given your state, you hadn’t even noticed.
Footsteps approached before a shadow loomed over the table, undisturbed amongst the plates and crockery.
As the silence deafened you, you prayed that fate would be on your side, at least this once. And thus, your last hope was shattered.
"You..." The newcomer scrutinised the old man, seemingly asking him some kind of question. "What are you doing here?"
(A/n): AHHHH thank you everyone for supporting this fic, it really means a lot to me! I didn't really expect people to like this silly fic so much😭 I'm sorry if this update was pretty delayed but I decided to rewrite half of this since I thought it was too cliché. Anyways, I know that this chapter is really slow paced but trust the process🔥🔥
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