Okay. Hold up. Recap! You snapped a photo of your wall with an old camera that sounded plastic-like and rattly every time you shook it and—somehow—you were now standing in front of the one and only Brooklyn Bridge?!

How on earth did you get here?! Oh, wait trick question, because no one here knows the goddamn answer to that!

Were you possessed for a moment? Possibly slept walked and flew all the way to New York City with a camera in hand… Make it make sense, you cried in your mind to no one in particular, desperately trying to understand the whole situation.

As you scanned your surroundings frantically—dropping the very innocent Canon in the process, as it rolled until it fell on its back—passersby were strolling along a path, few couples hand-in-hand, children running ahead of their parents, and a middle-aged gentleman reading amongst himself, flipping through the gossip-filled newspaper. A sign beside you that read “Brooklyn Heights Promenade” had said all that you needed to know as to where you were.

Despite your eyes having to skitter and dart to every new object within your vision; it, in fact, did not help ease anything and only added to your panic. The possibility of this being a dream had washed over you… However, that reasoning only lasted a second when the horrid sensation of wet socks seeped between your toes. The feeling prompted a quick look to the ground; your feet were soaked inside a shallow puddle. No dream could replicate the squishy discomfort of watery clothing. You quickly hopped out of the thin pool, failing miserably as you shook your feet dry—which rewarded you a glance or two from others.

Noticing the attention you were receiving, you zoomed to the nearest teenager, staring like a deer in headlights as you cried out, “where am I right now?” The startled citizen flinched to the far-out stare in this crazed-looking person and then peeped out the words New York City before fleeing away.

The realization slowly settled—you aimlessly stumbled back to the iron fence and shallow sheet of water—this was not a dream. You were in New York City, no doubt about it. And worst of all—in your pajamas. If there had been a warning, you would have at least tried to pick a better outfit.

Alright, no! That’s not even remotely important right now! Reminding yourself of the actual problem at hand.

Americans and tourists of all ages and generations continued to walk by as you quietly went through a total meltdown; though, something about this atmosphere ticked your brain. It was an effect that made you feel foreign, like you were the odd one out.

That strange hunch gradually became clear as your gaze glanced towards the middle aged man; he wore a gray suit set that paired with his checkered tie and a worn down fedora—that’s such a vintage style, you thought rather impressed with the elder bringing retro back—but it did not end there, leaving your eyes from the man to a group of young women who passed by giggling, most of them rocked a pair of flare jeans and leather boots; meanwhile their feathery blown out hairstyles spoke enough volumes as to when they were dressing…

Was there a festival going on nearby? You wondered if there had been another random American holiday you managed to forget about—maybe a ‘dress like the 80s day.’ “It feels like I just traveled to the past,” muttering your thoughts aloud as a man in hippie clothing passed you by. Jokingly making the thought that you jumped into a Back to the Future timeline, which was literal nonsense. Seemingly forgetting the fact that teleporting more than seven-hundred miles away from your home was not exactly normal either. It’s not like you had an obvious explanation for whatever happened, but no matter what, traveling into the past was beyond crazy.

You needed a change of position, turning to lean your elbows on the fence—it was time to wrap your head around how you’d get out of New York City. Your pockets were empty and to top it off you were only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, so by definition you had nothing to your name.

“God, how the hell did I get here?!” You constantly racked your brain for some sort of memory that could explain all this. Ruffling your uncombed damp hair like it had the answers underneath.

Just before all this, you were beside the bed holding a camera, then took a quick picture of your wall and poof! You arrived in NYC. There was that weird already-developed picture in the viewfinder, and it surprisingly had the exact same skyline as the one in front of you right now. As you looked towards the buildings glistening under the afternoon sun, your fingers began to tangle and tug around your hair as you tried to recall the cause of this predicament.

Despite the panic thumping in your throat, the view was breathtaking.

The glittering Manhattan skyline shone with pride as the Brooklyn Bridge arched out towards the city, and distinct car honking sounded in the distance. Not to mention the iconic buildings that could only belong to New York: the Empire State, the Chrysler building, and the Twin Towers rivaling them all—you thought to yourself before your mind blanked.

.

.

.

Every organ in your body felt like they had sunk six feet into the ground.

The Twin Towers?!

The very gone and destroyed Twin Towers! Your knees met the ground before your brain could even load. Life drained from your face as though you had quite literally seen a ghost. There was no way. No how! That the Twin Towers were standing before you like nothing happened! Everything froze at that point, your heart dropped under the pavement, blood ran cold, and goosebumps rose from every possible follicle in your skin.

It was scientifically impossible—actually, physically impossible for them to rebuild the towers within a day, let alone without masses of news channels reporting it on every outlet. As your mind melted against its skull and heart rammed a mile per second, your eyes shifted to different focal points, you needed something to ground you, to explain that this was all a stage built for a play or—or a film, anything! And then the gray suited man on the bench came to view. You scrambled on your feet to ask him the final lingering question.

“Hey, ‘scuse me—what’s today’s date?” Asking like there was a mouse caught in your throat, fear got hold of you, because whatever this stranger said next could alter your entire brain schema. The man peeked from under his hat, closing the newspaper to view the exact date on the New York Times header. “August 18th, a Thursday.” His matter-of-fact baritone voice clarified, which frankly did not make sense because today was a Tuesday “No, I mean—” taking it upon yourself to read the current year yourself. Leaning in to find:

New York, Thursday, August 18, 1977

You wanted to laugh, to scoff at the preposterousness that was time travel. Your mouth was left ajar as you walked away from the confused male, likely noting you as some runaway street-kid who woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and wearing inappropriate clothing in broad daylight.

To your dismay, no one could answer the million questions running in your mind. So many hows and whys that would remain unanswered, because not a soul in this world would believe you had time traveled back to the days of Jazz and face-to-face communication. No social media, zero cellphones, and not a single yoga pant in sight. It was 1977 and you were in denial.

Back to the same iron fence, you stared out to the city. Retracing your steps to find what may have caused this entire situation. Did you offhandedly wish to go back in time like those TV shows and a divine force granted it true?

No, no, no! That wasn’t it.

And like a moth to a flame, a glint attracted your attention. The old Canon left abandoned on the bricked pavement. It was the very camera that held a perfectly developed photo of the 80s—now discovered 1977—city view inside the eyepiece, despite it being unusual and practically impossible for a picture to be naturally burnt inside a camera lens.

Out of suspicion, the camera was not left neglected this time, picking it up from its cobbled spot near the iron fence. Adjusting the device in your hold before peeking through the finder like you previously done in the bedroom. Would you see the New York City view once again?

Like déjà vu, you saw your home, or more specifically the wall of your apartment and the dresser below. Should you laugh at how silly this all feels? Regardless of the overflowing emotions that ran past you all at once, your finger slipped to the trigger and the never-ending sounds of cars and breezy air ceased.

To your relief—gently removing the camera from your sight in anticipation—you were standing in the center of your room, everything was just as it had been before you left, and your very modern phone was resting on the bed covers. In a hurry, you ran to check the date, worried that you were sent too far in the future this time—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Your screen reading the date that you knew and now loved: August 18, Tuesday, 2026

A breath of sweet respite left your lungs, resting your head on your cool bedding like it had been far too long. You wanted to never part ways ever again.

As your heart and running mind began to calm slowly, it left more room to contemplate the strangeness you had just encountered; the black hued plastic of the camera filled your sight, like it teasingly knew of what it just put you through. Not a minute was wasted when you stood to put the device away. Storing it in the same corner of the box and closing it shut. Who knew what other sorcery objects were buried here, you certainly did not want to wait and find out.

There was a guilt ridden feeling in your gut that held you back from tossing the whole thing away, so you shoved it under the bed and pretended like it was all an elaborate dream. Your life was already in enough haywire; a teleporting camera thingamabob was not something you needed right now. Speaking of needing something; these socks have got to go—hopping on your feet to remove the dirty puddle socks. This didn’t happen and those socks got dirty from a combination of the dusty floors and your just-showered feet… Yep, keep convincing yourself with that.

It had been a week since that time traveling incident, and you were trying your absolute hardest to not even allow it to cross your mind. Were you successful? No, no, you were not. Everything about it had your heart kicking. There was a strange feeling radiating from that box, like it was calling out for someone… And in a way, it felt intimate, warmness meant only for you. But no matter how many times your mind tried to think about the box, you resisted with every nerve.

Not until a random day at work did you finally think to give it a chance.

August 25, once again, another Tuesday. The lovely sound of credit cards being charged on the machine and milk steamers buzzed in the air as coffee lovers and table-hoggers enjoyed their afternoon. Thank God you didn’t receive any of those ‘special order’ customers—they had a tendency of being extra technical with details—for every time you faced one of them, you were a couple iced coffees with twenty pumps of caramel away from a social meltdown.

The ambient piano covers played in the background speakers when another take-out latte had been completed, which allowed a certain Ella to slide into your bubble.

“So~ Camera illusions, huh?” She had mentioned this topic yet again, after you had passionately—delusionally in your friend’s eyes—explained that it sent you back to the 1970s. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then go back to your espressos.”

“I am not making fun of you! Just—what if you had a really bad dream or something? I mean, sent to New York in just socks and sweats? Sounds like a total fashion nightmare to me.”

You wanted to correct her, specify that it was 1977 New York, but what good would that do you—she doesn’t even believe the teleporting part. Honestly, it was hard for even you to understand… This wasn’t some random fluke that could have happened to anyone. You quite literally traveled back to the 20th century with the help of an old rattling camera.

No matter how many sleepless nights you had after constant nightmares of being sent to the witch hunting era, you could never consider it as just a crazy dream or hallucination. If it were a dream, then that was it and any more thinking would be a waste of brain space; but if you were truly sent to the past… Then—

“Maybe it was a dream,” Ella spoke up as she cleaned out the espresso portafilter, “but who’s to say it didn’t mean something?” You blinked at the girl beside you; an eyebrow rose that dared to ask what she was trying to say.

She hummed thoughtfully before continuing on, something that Ella did when she did not want to ramble out silly possibilities, your friend likely felt that you were more hung up on this incident than you let on. “You know I believe things happen for a reason, right? So, what if this was a sign for you to get out of your shell for once?” She slightly lowered her voice at the end. Before you could retaliate with the same word of ‘I’m happy with my life,’ Ella cut you off; “You and I both know you’re not happy with whatever you got going on right now! Don’t tell me you are actually excited to get a degree in the world of boring suits and bowties.” Also known as business administration in English.

“Take a gap year, who cares if you finish later, the job market literally cannot get any more dogshit than it is now. You need to enjoy your life, not speed-run through it like a hedgehog!” She rapped back without a breath and let her frustration by toweling the already dried utensils.

“Hedgehogs don’t speed though—” Attempting to update her information, but received a serious faced Ella instead, tight lipped and all, “I am trying to make a point!”

“Okay, okay! I hear you. I’ll do some ‘soul searching’ or whatever you call it.” Air quoting with a plastic cup and black marker in hand.

“Good.” And to that, the Ella Ted Talk™ has been concluded, leaving you with your own thoughts. Thankfully, the number of customers coming in for their midday cup of Joe would keep you busy from your head for now.

So… Here you were. With your apartment. And the box under your bed. You were fairly sure when Ella said take a gap year, she probably meant to go explore the world or however else people do it… Not trying to go to the past like a conspiracy theorist. You did not completely believe that the camera actually took you back there, but it was the only logical explanation—wait, no! What logical?! Nothing about this was logical! Oh God, now it was messing with your brain.

You paced around your flat for what was five long minutes, which felt like an hour of creaking on the wooden flooring and the strands of your sock getting snatched in the unpolished planks. If… If there was even a 1% chance of that ‘hallucination’ being real—and you actually time traveled, then you would just need to check for yourself… Right?

Sure, the week before that box showed up you were under so much stress, exams were crawling up your shoulders, textbooks were replacing the boogieman in your nightmares, and countless all-nighters were taking up your sleep schedule. So, it wouldn’t be strange that you started imagining the craziest scenarios, like being sent to the days before your parents met—were they even born yet?!

God, you were thinking far too much; it was about time you just ripped the band-aid off. Pulling out the cardboard box from its prison under your bed, swiftly swiping off a week’s worth of dust from the top before opening it up. Revealing the treasures you so hoped to ignore… And was that photo always there—?

The moment you opened up the box flaps, a familiar photo sat atop everything else, like it was purposely waiting for your attention. A perfectly developed picture of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from the Promenade—the same exact image you saw in the viewfinder, meaning the same one that you were sent to in the 1970s. Yeah, totally not terrifying at all… Chills ran down your spine, alarms blared in your mind screaming, that was not there before! Your reflexes kicked the box back under the bed—nope, not doing this today!

“Just take me! That’s it, I know you’re in here, you weird ass boogeyman,” yelling it for the neighbors to hear at this point, “just kill me already! C’mon, quick and painful!” Darting your sight to random corners of your fairly small flat, checking under the bed for some big bad burglar who’s playing a prank on you.

Sadly, to say the least, there was no robber, thief, or gigantic spider coming to reap your soul. How unfortunate… Falling on your back, the fluffy rug below, and staring out to the ceiling. A breath of what one would assume was frustration, maybe confusion, slipped past your lips. Your mind felt like it was racing with questions and possibilities, yet none at all. Thoughts moved far too fast for you to catch them, only making your head overheat from brain abuse caused by that stupid box.

Each inhale expanding your lungs was counting the seconds passing, and every exhale was a reminder of how you had nothing to lose. To your side, you saw the kicked box under the bed, sitting as if it could wait forever. Would it though?

Before your head got all panicky again, you sat up to pull in the box. No time like the present. Still somewhat opened, except with a new folded dent to the outer flap, caused by a certain someone’s quick swift kick. There it was, that photo. The reason for your hysterical week.

From your view, everything was mixed, jumbled, and stacked on top one another. Old captured memories, couple loose ticket stubs stuck between the box and a wooden chest, a curled up newspaper, and many other items that have tested the length of time. Including that camera…

First things first, there was no way you could search this entire pile while it was still a mess. You rolled up your sleeves and mentally cheered yourself on. Turning on a quick song to organize to while time passes by.

...queue background music...

Your shoulders danced as Maxine sang in her soulful melodies, mouthing with the lyrics as you laid each item in groups on your bed. Photos among photos, little trinkets clustered in another corner, papers and newspapers stacked to the side, concert ticket stubs, postcards, a folded paper of pressed flowers, and so many more physical memories in small bits and pieces were given a spot on your duvet.

Love is good, love can be strong! Maxine truthfully sang as you lifted the mini chest from the box and put it on your nightstand, the bed was already covered in groups of memorabilia, it would get too cluttered to add the chest as well. Floral designs were carved into the dark fruity colored wood, and a painted vine of roses greeted you from the top of the lid; caressing this little box that pressed on through time, your finger grazed upon a stuck out metal key. Reeling in your attention, a golden plated hand-crank chilled from a lack of warm touch. You lifted the wooden lid up, finding a glass protecting the musical mechanics of the instrument, meanwhile old dirtied coins and cut-out newspaper articles sat atop the glass. It was a music box, you realized, and cranked the handle to check if it still works. The R&B tunes phased out in the background, your breath held in as you expected a melodious ding.

…queue music box playing over…

And by God it did, magical twinkles and chimes danced around your apartment space. A single note took you back years. A single note surrounded you of memories as grandmother twirled in the kitchen, humming a tune you only knew as hers. Clanks of pots and pans accompanying her melodies, grandfather watching in admiration, a time when you could only be so carefree, so happy, and unaware of anything that was to come.

Hands hovered and stalled around the box, not sure if you wanted it to continue playing. Or to make it stop reminding you of a moment that would never return. How many times have you seen your grandma smile, even when you were a tiring brat, after she choked out an ugly cough, or during the times she waved to you goodbye when you had to leave. “It would be a waste of my life if I spent it unhappy, now, wouldn’t it?” Gran had answered you once, asking why she always smiled no matter rain or shine. Had it been you who dealt with your own antics, all the days would be filled with groans and frowns. “The world’s a better place for everyone when you smile,” she added with a calmness over her eyes, holding you close as you hummed to her answer.

Those memories faded away, notes bridging over to another section of the song. Your eyes got lost in the box, fiddling with the souvenir coins grandmother stored and then looking over the torn out articles, it was announcing the opening of museums, gardens, and a new amusement park for couples and families to enjoy. She always loved fun lively venues…

Your eyes caught sight of a beige neglected sheet in the box. The musical box had completely taken over your attention, that the last item at the bottom was almost forgotten. A single paper adorned with folds, dents, and crinkles around the corner, some specs of dirt here and there, along with a big, penciled header ‘Bucket List’ in a messy cursive style.

Following the title came a sentence that echoed like you had heard it a million times.

Life’s too short to keep saving for someday.

Something you’ve heard your grandfather say every time you postponed or procrastinated things you kept for later. That man had a way with words, especially for a ten year-old who did not yet understand how philosophical life could be.

A list of activities and plans filled the rest of the sheet. Some were shown complete with a checkmark, while others were left empty. Many were so ordinary, so domestic.

. . .

Learn somebody’s stories. ✓

Watch Manhattan wake up. ✓

Get lost on purpose.

Find a place that feels like home.

Go to a drive-in movie. ✓

Have one unforgettable day without my camera.

Eat ice-cream for dinner. ✓

Fly a kite. ✓

Visit every record store I can find. ✓

Be there for the people I love.

Write a letter I’ll never send.

. . .

The list continued for a few more entries, margins filled with rewritten ideas, while others were crossed out, as if whoever wrote this had far too many dreams and aspirations for life. Unsure of what to put down first. Likely in a hurry to write as well, coffee and an orangy stain colored the edges of the paper. And pen swirls in the top-most corner, something your grandfather did to test a pen’s ink.

. . .

Cook pancakes without setting off fire alarms.

Beat the old man at dancing ← He got moves!

Visit the Statue of Liberty.

Watch the sunset with somebody.

. . .

It hurt. It hurt to see someone who could think of something so small, so simple, and consider it bucket list worthy. Everything about this was filled with love and thought. The paper wasn’t perfect. The handwriting was messy, some words darker than others—caused by too much pressure—and the crinkles, stains, and scratches all said that this could have been thrown away if it were anyone else who wrote this. But here it was. In your hands. Saved in a box of memories, something to look back on.

He lived his life. Grandpa sounded like someone who was happy with even the smallest of moments. Did he have any regrets? Was he surviving on the edge until he saved enough for someday? Did Grandpa go down a path that he never truly wanted…?

He always had something to say, with stories to tell. There were still quite a few unchecked items on this list, yet Grandpa looked satisfied even as he passed away. Could you do the same? If the world had ended, would it be true to say you lived life…?

As your throat clogged with unsaid questions and an aching heart, your mind asked questions only you could answer. The music box gradually reached its end, light dings that rang in your ears, comforting your sadness until you were ready.

When would you stop trying to survive?

Okay. Hold up. Recap! You snapped a photo of your wall with an old camera that sounded plastic-like and rattly every time you shook it and—somehow—you were now standing in front of the one and only Brooklyn Bridge?!

How on earth did you get here?! Oh, wait trick question, because no one here knows the goddamn answer to that!

Were you possessed for a moment? Possibly slept walked and flew all the way to New York City with a camera in hand… Make it make sense, you cried in your mind to no one in particular, desperately trying to understand the whole situation.

As you scanned your surroundings frantically—dropping the very innocent Canon in the process, as it rolled until it fell on its back—passersby were strolling along a path, few couples hand-in-hand, children running ahead of their parents, and a middle-aged gentleman reading amongst himself, flipping through the gossip-filled newspaper. A sign beside you that read “Brooklyn Heights Promenade” had said all that you needed to know as to where you were.

Despite your eyes having to skitter and dart to every new object within your vision; it, in fact, did not help ease anything and only added to your panic. The possibility of this being a dream had washed over you… However, that reasoning only lasted a second when the horrid sensation of wet socks seeped between your toes. The feeling prompted a quick look to the ground; your feet were soaked inside a shallow puddle. No dream could replicate the squishy discomfort of watery clothing. You quickly hopped out of the thin pool, failing miserably as you shook your feet dry—which rewarded you a glance or two from others.

Noticing the attention you were receiving, you zoomed to the nearest teenager, staring like a deer in headlights as you cried out, “where am I right now?” The startled citizen flinched to the far-out stare in this crazed-looking person and then peeped out the words New York City before fleeing away.

The realization slowly settled—you aimlessly stumbled back to the iron fence and shallow sheet of water—this was not a dream. You were in New York City, no doubt about it. And worst of all—in your pajamas. If there had been a warning, you would have at least tried to pick a better outfit.

Alright, no! That’s not even remotely important right now! Reminding yourself of the actual problem at hand.

Americans and tourists of all ages and generations continued to walk by as you quietly went through a total meltdown; though, something about this atmosphere ticked your brain. It was an effect that made you feel foreign, like you were the odd one out.

That strange hunch gradually became clear as your gaze glanced towards the middle aged man; he wore a gray suit set that paired with his checkered tie and a worn down fedora—that’s such a vintage style, you thought rather impressed with the elder bringing retro back—but it did not end there, leaving your eyes from the man to a group of young women who passed by giggling, most of them rocked a pair of flare jeans and leather boots; meanwhile their feathery blown out hairstyles spoke enough volumes as to when they were dressing…

Was there a festival going on nearby? You wondered if there had been another random American holiday you managed to forget about—maybe a ‘dress like the 80s day.’ “It feels like I just traveled to the past,” muttering your thoughts aloud as a man in hippie clothing passed you by. Jokingly making the thought that you jumped into a Back to the Future timeline, which was literal nonsense. Seemingly forgetting the fact that teleporting more than seven-hundred miles away from your home was not exactly normal either. It’s not like you had an obvious explanation for whatever happened, but no matter what, traveling into the past was beyond crazy.

You needed a change of position, turning to lean your elbows on the fence—it was time to wrap your head around how you’d get out of New York City. Your pockets were empty and to top it off you were only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, so by definition you had nothing to your name.

“God, how the hell did I get here?!” You constantly racked your brain for some sort of memory that could explain all this. Ruffling your uncombed damp hair like it had the answers underneath.

Just before all this, you were beside the bed holding a camera, then took a quick picture of your wall and poof! You arrived in NYC. There was that weird already-developed picture in the viewfinder, and it surprisingly had the exact same skyline as the one in front of you right now. As you looked towards the buildings glistening under the afternoon sun, your fingers began to tangle and tug around your hair as you tried to recall the cause of this predicament.

Despite the panic thumping in your throat, the view was breathtaking.

The glittering Manhattan skyline shone with pride as the Brooklyn Bridge arched out towards the city, and distinct car honking sounded in the distance. Not to mention the iconic buildings that could only belong to New York: the Empire State, the Chrysler building, and the Twin Towers rivaling them all—you thought to yourself before your mind blanked.

.

.

.

Every organ in your body felt like they had sunk six feet into the ground.

The Twin Towers?!

The very gone and destroyed Twin Towers! Your knees met the ground before your brain could even load. Life drained from your face as though you had quite literally seen a ghost. There was no way. No how! That the Twin Towers were standing before you like nothing happened! Everything froze at that point, your heart dropped under the pavement, blood ran cold, and goosebumps rose from every possible follicle in your skin.

It was scientifically impossible—actually, physically impossible for them to rebuild the towers within a day, let alone without masses of news channels reporting it on every outlet. As your mind melted against its skull and heart rammed a mile per second, your eyes shifted to different focal points, you needed something to ground you, to explain that this was all a stage built for a play or—or a film, anything! And then the gray suited man on the bench came to view. You scrambled on your feet to ask him the final lingering question.

“Hey, ‘scuse me—what’s today’s date?” Asking like there was a mouse caught in your throat, fear got hold of you, because whatever this stranger said next could alter your entire brain schema. The man peeked from under his hat, closing the newspaper to view the exact date on the New York Times header. “August 18th, a Thursday.” His matter-of-fact baritone voice clarified, which frankly did not make sense because today was a Tuesday “No, I mean—” taking it upon yourself to read the current year yourself. Leaning in to find:

New York, Thursday, August 18, 1977

You wanted to laugh, to scoff at the preposterousness that was time travel. Your mouth was left ajar as you walked away from the confused male, likely noting you as some runaway street-kid who woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and wearing inappropriate clothing in broad daylight.

To your dismay, no one could answer the million questions running in your mind. So many hows and whys that would remain unanswered, because not a soul in this world would believe you had time traveled back to the days of Jazz and face-to-face communication. No social media, zero cellphones, and not a single yoga pant in sight. It was 1977 and you were in denial.

Back to the same iron fence, you stared out to the city. Retracing your steps to find what may have caused this entire situation. Did you offhandedly wish to go back in time like those TV shows and a divine force granted it true?

No, no, no! That wasn’t it.

And like a moth to a flame, a glint attracted your attention. The old Canon left abandoned on the bricked pavement. It was the very camera that held a perfectly developed photo of the 80s—now discovered 1977—city view inside the eyepiece, despite it being unusual and practically impossible for a picture to be naturally burnt inside a camera lens.

Out of suspicion, the camera was not left neglected this time, picking it up from its cobbled spot near the iron fence. Adjusting the device in your hold before peeking through the finder like you previously done in the bedroom. Would you see the New York City view once again?

Like déjà vu, you saw your home, or more specifically the wall of your apartment and the dresser below. Should you laugh at how silly this all feels? Regardless of the overflowing emotions that ran past you all at once, your finger slipped to the trigger and the never-ending sounds of cars and breezy air ceased.

To your relief—gently removing the camera from your sight in anticipation—you were standing in the center of your room, everything was just as it had been before you left, and your very modern phone was resting on the bed covers. In a hurry, you ran to check the date, worried that you were sent too far in the future this time—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Your screen reading the date that you knew and now loved: August 18, Tuesday, 2026

A breath of sweet respite left your lungs, resting your head on your cool bedding like it had been far too long. You wanted to never part ways ever again.

As your heart and running mind began to calm slowly, it left more room to contemplate the strangeness you had just encountered; the black hued plastic of the camera filled your sight, like it teasingly knew of what it just put you through. Not a minute was wasted when you stood to put the device away. Storing it in the same corner of the box and closing it shut. Who knew what other sorcery objects were buried here, you certainly did not want to wait and find out.

There was a guilt ridden feeling in your gut that held you back from tossing the whole thing away, so you shoved it under the bed and pretended like it was all an elaborate dream. Your life was already in enough haywire; a teleporting camera thingamabob was not something you needed right now. Speaking of needing something; these socks have got to go—hopping on your feet to remove the dirty puddle socks. This didn’t happen and those socks got dirty from a combination of the dusty floors and your just-showered feet… Yep, keep convincing yourself with that.

It had been a week since that time traveling incident, and you were trying your absolute hardest to not even allow it to cross your mind. Were you successful? No, no, you were not. Everything about it had your heart kicking. There was a strange feeling radiating from that box, like it was calling out for someone… And in a way, it felt intimate, warmness meant only for you. But no matter how many times your mind tried to think about the box, you resisted with every nerve.

Not until a random day at work did you finally think to give it a chance.

August 25, once again, another Tuesday. The lovely sound of credit cards being charged on the machine and milk steamers buzzed in the air as coffee lovers and table-hoggers enjoyed their afternoon. Thank god you didn’t receive any of those ‘special order’ customers—they had a tendency of being extra technical with details—for every time you faced one of them, you were a couple iced coffees with twenty pumps of caramel away from a social meltdown.

The ambient piano covers played in the background speakers when another take-out latte had been completed, which allowed a certain Ella to slide into your bubble.

“So~ Camera illusions, huh?” She had mentioned this topic yet again, after you had passionately—delusionally in your friend’s eyes—explained that it sent you back to the 1970s. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then go back to your espressos.”

“I am not making fun of you! Just—what if you had a really bad dream or something? I mean, sent to New York in just socks and sweats? Sounds like a total fashion nightmare to me.”

You wanted to correct her, specify that it was 1977 New York, but what good would that do you—she doesn’t even believe the teleporting part. Honestly, it was hard for even you to understand… This wasn’t some random fluke that could have happened to anyone. You quite literally traveled back to the 20th century with the help of an old rattling camera.

No matter how many sleepless nights you had after constant nightmares of being sent to the witch hunting era, you could never consider it as just a crazy dream or hallucination. If it were a dream, then that was it and any more thinking would be a waste of brain space; but if you were truly sent to the past… Then—

“Maybe it was a dream,” Ella spoke up as she cleaned out the espresso portafilter, “but who’s to say it didn’t mean something?” You blinked at the girl beside you; an eyebrow rose that dared to ask what she was trying to say.

She hummed thoughtfully before continuing on, something that Ella did when she did not want to ramble out silly possibilities, your friend likely felt that you were more hung up on this incident than you let on. “You know I believe things happen for a reason, right? So, what if this was a sign for you to get out of your shell for once?” She slightly lowered her voice at the end. Before you could retaliate with the same word of ‘I’m happy with my life,’ Ella cut you off; “You and I both know you’re not happy with whatever you got going on right now! Don’t tell me you are actually excited to get a degree in the world of boring suits and bowties.” Also known as business administration in English.

“Take a gap year, who cares if you finish later, the job market literally cannot get any more dogshit than it is now. You need to enjoy your life, not speed-run through it like a hedgehog!” She rapped back without a breath and let her frustration by toweling the already dried utensils.

“Hedgehogs don’t speed though—” Attempting to update her information, but received a serious faced Ella instead, tight lipped and all, “I am trying to make a point!”

“Okay, okay! I hear you. I’ll do some ‘soul searching’ or whatever you call it.” Air quoting with a plastic cup and black marker in hand.

“Good.” And to that, the Ella Ted Talk™ has been concluded, leaving you with your own thoughts. Thankfully, the number of customers coming in for their midday cup of Joe would keep you busy from your head for now.

So… Here you were. With your apartment. And the box under your bed. You were fairly sure when Ella said take a gap year, she probably meant to go explore the world or however else people do it… Not trying to go to the past like a conspiracy theorist. You did not completely believe that the camera actually took you back there, but it was the only logical explanation—wait, no! What logical?! Nothing about this was logical! Oh god, now it was messing with your brain.

You paced around your flat for what was five long minutes, which felt like an hour of creaking on the wooden flooring and the strands of your sock getting snatched in the unpolished planks. If… If there was even a 1% chance of that ‘hallucination’ being real—and you actually time traveled, then you would just need to check for yourself… Right?

Sure, the week before that box showed up you were under so much stress, exams were crawling up your shoulders, textbooks were replacing the boogieman in your nightmares, and countless all-nighters were taking up your sleep schedule. So, it wouldn’t be strange that you started imagining the craziest scenarios, like being sent to the days before your parents met—were they even born yet?!

God, you were thinking far too much; it was about time you just ripped the band-aid off. Pulling out the cardboard box from its prison under your bed, swiftly swiping off a week’s worth of dust from the top before opening it up. Revealing the treasures you so hoped to ignore… And was that photo always there—?

The moment you opened up the box flaps, a familiar photo sat atop everything else, like it was purposely waiting for your attention. A perfectly developed picture of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from the Promenade—the same exact image you saw in the viewfinder, meaning the same one that you were sent to in the 1970s. Yeah, totally not terrifying at all… Chills ran down your spine, alarms blared in your mind screaming, that was not there before! Your reflexes kicked the box back under the bed—nope, not doing this today!

“Just take me! That’s it, I know you’re in here, you weird ass boogeyman,” yelling it for the neighbors to hear at this point, “just kill me already! C’mon, quick and painful!” Darting your sight to random corners of your fairly small flat, checking under the bed for some big bad burglar who’s playing a prank on you.

Sadly, to say the least, there was no robber, thief, or gigantic spider coming to reap your soul. How unfortunate… Falling on your back, the fluffy rug below, and staring out to the ceiling. A breath of what one would assume was frustration, maybe confusion, slipped past your lips. Your mind felt like it was racing with questions and possibilities, yet none at all. Thoughts moved far too fast for you to catch them, only making your head overheat from brain abuse caused by that stupid box.

Each inhale expanding your lungs was counting the seconds passing, and every exhale was a reminder of how you had nothing to lose. To your side, you saw the kicked box under the bed, sitting as if it could wait forever. Would it though?

Before your head got all panicky again, you sat up to pull in the box. No time like the present. Still somewhat opened, except with a new folded dent to the outer flap, caused by a certain someone’s quick swift kick. There it was, that photo. The reason for your hysterical week.

From your view, everything was mixed, jumbled, and stacked on top one another. Old captured memories, couple loose ticket stubs stuck between the box and a wooden chest, a curled up newspaper, and many other items that have tested the length of time. Including that camera…

First things first, there was no way you could search this entire pile while it was still a mess. You rolled up your sleeves and mentally cheered yourself on. Turning on a quick song to organize to while time passes by.

...queue background music...

Your shoulders danced as Maxine sang in her soulful melodies, mouthing with the lyrics as you laid each item in groups on your bed. Photos among photos, little trinkets clustered in another corner, papers and newspapers stacked to the side, concert ticket stubs, postcards, a folded paper of pressed flowers, and so many more physical memories in small bits and pieces were given a spot on your duvet.

Love is good, love can be strong! Maxine truthfully sang as you lifted the mini chest from the box and put it on your nightstand, the bed was already covered in groups of memorabilia, it would get too cluttered to add the chest as well. Floral designs were carved into the dark fruity colored wood, and a painted vine of roses greeted you from the top of the lid; caressing this little box that pressed on through time, your finger grazed upon a stuck out metal key. Reeling in your attention, a golden plated hand-crank chilled from a lack of warm touch. You lifted the wooden lid up, finding a glass protecting the musical mechanics of the instrument, meanwhile old dirtied coins and cut-out newspaper articles sat atop the glass. It was a music box, you realized, and cranked the handle to check if it still works. The R&B tunes phased out in the background, your breath held in as you expected a melodious ding.

…queue music box playing over…

And by god it did, magical twinkles and chimes danced around your apartment space. A single note took you back years. A single note surrounded you of memories as grandmother twirled in the kitchen, humming a tune you only knew as hers. Clanks of pots and pans accompanying her melodies, grandfather watching in admiration, a time when you could only be so carefree, so happy, and unaware of anything that was to come.

Hands hovered and stalled around the box, not sure if you wanted it to continue playing. Or to make it stop reminding you of a moment that would never return. How many times have you seen your grandma smile, even when you were a tiring brat, after she choked out an ugly cough, or during the times she waved to you goodbye when you had to leave. “It would be a waste of my life if I spent it unhappy, now wouldn’t it?” Gran had answered you once, asking why she always smiled no matter rain or shine. Had it been you who dealt with your own antics, all the days would be filled with groans and frowns. “The world’s a better place for everyone when you smile,” she added with a calmness over her eyes, holding you close as you hummed to her answer.

Those memories faded away, notes bridging over to another section of the song. Your eyes got lost in the box, fiddling with the souvenir coins grandmother stored and then looking over the torn out articles, it was announcing the opening of museums, gardens, and a new amusement park for couples and families to enjoy. She always loved fun lively venues…

Your eyes caught sight of a beige neglected sheet in the box. The musical box had completely taken over your attention, that the last item at the bottom was almost forgotten. A single paper adorned with folds, dents, and crinkles around the corner, some specs of dirt here and there, along with a big penciled header ‘Bucket List’ in a messy cursive style.

Following the title came a sentence that echoed like you had heard it a million times.

Life’s too short to keep saving for someday.

Something you’ve heard your grandfather say every time you postponed or procrastinated things you kept for later. That man had a way with words, especially for a ten year-old who did not yet understand how philosophical life could be.

A list of activities and plans filled the rest of the sheet. Some were shown complete with a checkmark, while others were left empty. Many were so ordinary, so domestic.

. . .

Learn somebody’s stories. ✓

Watch Manhattan wake up. ✓

Get lost on purpose.

Find a place that feels like home.

Go to a drive-in movie. ✓

Have one unforgettable day without my camera.

Eat ice-cream for dinner. ✓

Fly a kite. ✓

Visit every record store I can find. ✓

Be there for the people I love.

Write a letter I’ll never send.

. . .

The list continued for a few more entries, margins filled with rewritten ideas, while others were crossed out, as if whoever wrote this had far too many dreams and aspirations for life. Unsure of what to put down first. Likely in a hurry to write as well, coffee and an orangy stain colored the edges of the paper. And pen swirls in the top-most corner, something your grandfather did to test a pen’s ink.

. . .

Cook pancakes without setting off fire alarms.

Beat the old man at dancing ← He got moves!

Visit the Statue of Liberty.

Watch the sunset with somebody.

. . .

It hurt. It hurt to see someone who could think of something so small, so simple, and consider it bucket list worthy. Everything about this was filled with love and thought. The paper wasn’t perfect. The handwriting was messy, some words darker than others—caused by too much pressure—and the crinkles, stains, and scratches all said that this could have been thrown away if it were anyone else who wrote this. But here it was. In your hands. Saved in a box of memories, something to look back on.

He lived his life. Grandpa sounded like someone who was happy with even the smallest of moments. Did he have any regrets? Was he surviving on the edge until he saved enough for someday? Did Grandpa go down a path that he never truly wanted…?

He always had something to say, with stories to tell. There were still quite a few unchecked items on this list, yet Grandpa looked satisfied even as he passed away. Could you do the same? If the world had ended, would it be true to say you lived life…?

As your throat clogged with unsaid questions and an aching heart, your mind asked questions only you could answer. The music box gradually reached its end, light dings that rang in your ears, comforting your sadness until you were ready.

When would you stop trying to survive?

Okay. Hold up. Recap! You snapped a photo of your wall with an old camera that sounded plastic-like and rattly every time you shook it and—somehow—you were now standing in front of the one and only Brooklyn Bridge?!

How on earth did you get here?! Oh, wait trick question, because no one here knows the goddamn answer to that!

Were you possessed for a moment? Possibly slept walked and flew all the way to New York City with a camera in hand… Make it make sense, you cried in your mind to no one in particular, desperately trying to understand the whole situation.

As you scanned your surroundings frantically—dropping the very innocent Canon in the process, as it rolled until it fell on its back—passersby were strolling along a path, few couples hand-in-hand, children running ahead of their parents, and a middle-aged gentleman reading amongst himself, flipping through the gossip-filled newspaper. A sign beside you that read “Brooklyn Heights Promenade” had said all that you needed to know as to where you were.

Despite your eyes having to skitter and dart to every new object within your vision; it, in fact, did not help ease anything and only added to your panic. The possibility of this being a dream had washed over you… However, that reasoning only lasted a second when the horrid sensation of wet socks seeped between your toes. The feeling prompted a quick look to the ground; your feet were soaked inside a shallow puddle. No dream could replicate the squishy discomfort of watery clothing. You quickly hopped out of the thin pool, failing miserably as you shook your feet dry—which rewarded you a glance or two from others.

Noticing the attention you were receiving, you zoomed to the nearest teenager, staring like a deer in headlights as you cried out, “where am I right now?” The startled citizen flinched to the far-out stare in this crazed-looking person and then peeped out the words New York City before fleeing away.

The realization slowly settled—you aimlessly stumbled back to the iron fence and shallow sheet of water—this was not a dream. You were in New York City, no doubt about it. And worst of all—in your pajamas. If there had been a warning, you would have at least tried to pick a better outfit.

Alright, no! That’s not even remotely important right now! Reminding yourself of the actual problem at hand.

Americans and tourists of all ages and generations continued to walk by as you quietly went through a total meltdown; though, something about this atmosphere ticked your brain. It was an effect that made you feel foreign, like you were the odd one out.

That strange hunch gradually became clear as your gaze glanced towards the middle aged man; he wore a gray suit set that paired with his checkered tie and a worn down fedora—that’s such a vintage style, you thought rather impressed with the elder bringing retro back—but it did not end there, leaving your eyes from the man to a group of young women who passed by giggling, most of them rocked a pair of flare jeans and leather boots; meanwhile their feathery blown out hairstyles spoke enough volumes as to when they were dressing…

Was there a festival going on nearby? You wondered if there had been another random American holiday you managed to forget about—maybe a ‘dress like the 80s day.’ “It feels like I just traveled to the past,” muttering your thoughts aloud as a man in hippie clothing passed you by. Jokingly making the thought that you jumped into a Back to the Future timeline, which was literal nonsense. Seemingly forgetting the fact that teleporting more than seven-hundred miles away from your home was not exactly normal either. It’s not like you had an obvious explanation for whatever happened, but no matter what, traveling into the past was beyond crazy.

You needed a change of position, turning to lean your elbows on the fence—it was time to wrap your head around how you’d get out of New York City. Your pockets were empty and to top it off you were only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, so by definition you had nothing to your name.

“God, how the hell did I get here?!” You constantly racked your brain for some sort of memory that could explain all this. Ruffling your uncombed damp hair like it had the answers underneath.

Just before all this, you were beside the bed holding a camera, then took a quick picture of your wall and poof! You arrived in NYC. There was that weird already-developed picture in the viewfinder, and it surprisingly had the exact same skyline as the one in front of you right now. As you looked towards the buildings glistening under the afternoon sun, your fingers began to tangle and tug around your hair as you tried to recall the cause of this predicament.

Despite the panic thumping in your throat, the view was breathtaking.

The glittering Manhattan skyline shone with pride as the Brooklyn Bridge arched out towards the city, and distinct car honking sounded in the distance. Not to mention the iconic buildings that could only belong to New York: the Empire State, the Chrysler building, and the Twin Towers rivaling them all—you thought to yourself before your mind blanked.

.

.

.

Every organ in your body felt like they had sunk six feet into the ground.

The Twin Towers?!

The very gone and destroyed Twin Towers! Your knees met the ground before your brain could even load. Life drained from your face as though you had quite literally seen a ghost. There was no way. No how! That the Twin Towers were standing before you like nothing happened! Everything froze at that point, your heart dropped under the pavement, blood ran cold, and goosebumps rose from every possible follicle in your skin.

It was scientifically impossible—actually, physically impossible for them to rebuild the towers within a day, let alone without masses of news channels reporting it on every outlet. As your mind melted against its skull and heart rammed a mile per second, your eyes shifted to different focal points, you needed something to ground you, to explain that this was all a stage built for a play or—or a film, anything! And then the gray suited man on the bench came to view. You scrambled on your feet to ask him the final lingering question.

“Hey, ‘scuse me—what’s today’s date?” Asking like there was a mouse caught in your throat, fear got hold of you, because whatever this stranger said next could alter your entire brain schema. The man peeked from under his hat, closing the newspaper to view the exact date on the New York Times header. “August 18th, a Thursday.” His matter-of-fact baritone voice clarified, which frankly did not make sense because today was a Tuesday “No, I mean—” taking it upon yourself to read the current year yourself. Leaning in to find:

New York, Thursday, August 18, 1977

You wanted to laugh, to scoff at the preposterousness that was time travel. Your mouth was left ajar as you walked away from the confused male, likely noting you as some runaway street-kid who woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and wearing inappropriate clothing in broad daylight.

To your dismay, no one could answer the million questions running in your mind. So many hows and whys that would remain unanswered, because not a soul in this world would believe you had time traveled back to the days of Jazz and face-to-face communication. No social media, zero cellphones, and not a single yoga pant in sight. It was 1977 and you were in denial.

Back to the same iron fence, you stared out to the city. Retracing your steps to find what may have caused this entire situation. Did you offhandedly wish to go back in time like those TV shows and a divine force granted it true?

No, no, no! That wasn’t it.

And like a moth to a flame, a glint attracted your attention. The old Canon left abandoned on the bricked pavement. It was the very camera that held a perfectly developed photo of the 80s—now discovered 1977—city view inside the eyepiece, despite it being unusual and practically impossible for a picture to be naturally burnt inside a camera lens.

Out of suspicion, the camera was not left neglected this time, picking it up from its cobbled spot near the iron fence. Adjusting the device in your hold before peeking through the finder like you previously done in the bedroom. Would you see the New York City view once again?

Like déjà vu, you saw your home, or more specifically the wall of your apartment and the dresser below. Should you laugh at how silly this all feels? Regardless of the overflowing emotions that ran past you all at once, your finger slipped to the trigger and the never-ending sounds of cars and breezy air ceased.

To your relief—gently removing the camera from your sight in anticipation—you were standing in the center of your room, everything was just as it had been before you left, and your very modern phone was resting on the bed covers. In a hurry, you ran to check the date, worried that you were sent too far in the future this time—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Your screen reading the date that you knew and now loved: August 18, Tuesday, 2026

A breath of sweet respite left your lungs, resting your head on your cool bedding like it had been far too long. You wanted to never part ways ever again.

As your heart and running mind began to calm slowly, it left more room to contemplate the strangeness you had just encountered; the black hued plastic of the camera filled your sight, like it teasingly knew of what it just put you through. Not a minute was wasted when you stood to put the device away. Storing it in the same corner of the box and closing it shut. Who knew what other sorcery objects were buried here, you certainly did not want to wait and find out.

There was a guilt ridden feeling in your gut that held you back from tossing the whole thing away, so you shoved it under the bed and pretended like it was all an elaborate dream. Your life was already in enough haywire; a teleporting camera thingamabob was not something you needed right now. Speaking of needing something; these socks have got to go—hopping on your feet to remove the dirty puddle socks. This didn’t happen and those socks got dirty from a combination of the dusty floors and your just-showered feet… Yep, keep convincing yourself with that.

It had been a week since that time traveling incident, and you were trying your absolute hardest to not even allow it to cross your mind. Were you successful? No, no, you were not. Everything about it had your heart kicking. There was a strange feeling radiating from that box, like it was calling out for someone… And in a way, it felt intimate, warmness meant only for you. But no matter how many times your mind tried to think about the box, you resisted with every nerve.

Not until a random day at work did you finally think to give it a chance.

August 25, once again, another Tuesday. The lovely sound of credit cards being charged on the machine and milk steamers buzzed in the air as coffee lovers and table-hoggers enjoyed their afternoon. Thank god you didn’t receive any of those ‘special order’ customers—they had a tendency of being extra technical with details—for every time you faced one of them, you were a couple iced coffees with twenty pumps of caramel away from a social meltdown.

The ambient piano covers played in the background speakers when another take-out latte had been completed, which allowed a certain Ella to slide into your bubble.

“So~ Camera illusions, huh?” She had mentioned this topic yet again, after you had passionately—delusionally in your friend’s eyes—explained that it sent you back to the 1970s. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then go back to your espressos.”

“I am not making fun of you! Just—what if you had a really bad dream or something? I mean, sent to New York in just socks and sweats? Sounds like a total fashion nightmare to me.”

You wanted to correct her, specify that it was 1977 New York, but what good would that do you—she doesn’t even believe the teleporting part. Honestly, it was hard for even you to understand… This wasn’t some random fluke that could have happened to anyone. You quite literally traveled back to the 20th century with the help of an old rattling camera.

No matter how many sleepless nights you had after constant nightmares of being sent to the witch hunting era, you could never consider it as just a crazy dream or hallucination. If it were a dream, then that was it and any more thinking would be a waste of brain space; but if you were truly sent to the past… Then—

“Maybe it was a dream,” Ella spoke up as she cleaned out the espresso portafilter, “but who’s to say it didn’t mean something?” You blinked at the girl beside you; an eyebrow rose that dared to ask what she was trying to say.

She hummed thoughtfully before continuing on, something that Ella did when she did not want to ramble out silly possibilities, your friend likely felt that you were more hung up on this incident than you let on. “You know I believe things happen for a reason, right? So, what if this was a sign for you to get out of your shell for once?” She slightly lowered her voice at the end. Before you could retaliate with the same word of ‘I’m happy with my life,’ Ella cut you off; “You and I both know you’re not happy with whatever you got going on right now! Don’t tell me you are actually excited to get a degree in the world of boring suits and bowties.” Also known as business administration in English.

“Take a gap year, who cares if you finish later, the job market literally cannot get any more dogshit than it is now. You need to enjoy your life, not speed-run through it like a hedgehog!” She rapped back without a breath and let her frustration by toweling the already dried utensils.

“Hedgehogs don’t speed though—” Attempting to update her information, but received a serious faced Ella instead, tight lipped and all, “I am trying to make a point!”

“Okay, okay! I hear you. I’ll do some ‘soul searching’ or whatever you call it.” Air quoting with a plastic cup and black marker in hand.

“Good.” And to that, the Ella Ted Talk™ has been concluded, leaving you with your own thoughts. Thankfully, the number of customers coming in for their midday cup of Joe would keep you busy from your head for now.

So… Here you were. With your apartment. And the box under your bed. You were fairly sure when Ella said take a gap year, she probably meant to go explore the world or however else people do it… Not trying to go to the past like a conspiracy theorist. You did not completely believe that the camera actually took you back there, but it was the only logical explanation—wait, no! What logical?! Nothing about this was logical! Oh god, now it was messing with your brain.

You paced around your flat for what was five long minutes, which felt like an hour of creaking on the wooden flooring and the strands of your sock getting snatched in the unpolished planks. If… If there was even a 1% chance of that ‘hallucination’ being real—and you actually time traveled, then you would just need to check for yourself… Right?

Sure, the week before that box showed up you were under so much stress, exams were crawling up your shoulders, textbooks were replacing the boogieman in your nightmares, and countless all-nighters were taking up your sleep schedule. So, it wouldn’t be strange that you started imagining the craziest scenarios, like being sent to the days before your parents met—were they even born yet?!

God, you were thinking far too much; it was about time you just ripped the band-aid off. Pulling out the cardboard box from its prison under your bed, swiftly swiping off a week’s worth of dust from the top before opening it up. Revealing the treasures you so hoped to ignore… And was that photo always there—?

The moment you opened up the box flaps, a familiar photo sat atop everything else, like it was purposely waiting for your attention. A perfectly developed picture of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from the Promenade—the same exact image you saw in the viewfinder, meaning the same one that you were sent to in the 1970s. Yeah, totally not terrifying at all… Chills ran down your spine, alarms blared in your mind screaming, that was not there before! Your reflexes kicked the box back under the bed—nope, not doing this today!

“Just take me! That’s it, I know you’re in here, you weird ass boogeyman,” yelling it for the neighbors to hear at this point, “just kill me already! C’mon, quick and painful!” Darting your sight to random corners of your fairly small flat, checking under the bed for some big bad burglar who’s playing a prank on you.

Sadly, to say the least, there was no robber, thief, or gigantic spider coming to reap your soul. How unfortunate… Falling on your back, the fluffy rug below, and staring out to the ceiling. A breath of what one would assume was frustration, maybe confusion, slipped past your lips. Your mind felt like it was racing with questions and possibilities, yet none at all. Thoughts moved far too fast for you to catch them, only making your head overheat from brain abuse caused by that stupid box.

Each inhale expanding your lungs was counting the seconds passing, and every exhale was a reminder of how you had nothing to lose. To your side, you saw the kicked box under the bed, sitting as if it could wait forever. Would it though?

Before your head got all panicky again, you sat up to pull in the box. No time like the present. Still somewhat opened, except with a new folded dent to the outer flap, caused by a certain someone’s quick swift kick. There it was, that photo. The reason for your hysterical week.

From your view, everything was mixed, jumbled, and stacked on top one another. Old captured memories, couple loose ticket stubs stuck between the box and a wooden chest, a curled up newspaper, and many other items that have tested the length of time. Including that camera…

First things first, there was no way you could search this entire pile while it was still a mess. You rolled up your sleeves and mentally cheered yourself on. Turning on a quick song to organize to while time passes by.

...queue background music...

Your shoulders danced as Maxine sang in her soulful melodies, mouthing with the lyrics as you laid each item in groups on your bed. Photos among photos, little trinkets clustered in another corner, papers and newspapers stacked to the side, concert ticket stubs, postcards, a folded paper of pressed flowers, and so many more physical memories in small bits and pieces were given a spot on your duvet.

Love is good, love can be strong! Maxine truthfully sang as you lifted the mini chest from the box and put it on your nightstand, the bed was already covered in groups of memorabilia, it would get too cluttered to add the chest as well. Floral designs were carved into the dark fruity colored wood, and a painted vine of roses greeted you from the top of the lid; caressing this little box that pressed on through time, your finger grazed upon a stuck out metal key. Reeling in your attention, a golden plated hand-crank chilled from a lack of warm touch. You lifted the wooden lid up, finding a glass protecting the musical mechanics of the instrument, meanwhile old dirtied coins and cut-out newspaper articles sat atop the glass. It was a music box, you realized, and cranked the handle to check if it still works. The R&B tunes phased out in the background, your breath held in as you expected a melodious ding.

…queue music box playing over…

And by god it did, magical twinkles and chimes danced around your apartment space. A single note took you back years. A single note surrounded you of memories as grandmother twirled in the kitchen, humming a tune you only knew as hers. Clanks of pots and pans accompanying her melodies, grandfather watching in admiration, a time when you could only be so carefree, so happy, and unaware of anything that was to come.

Hands hovered and stalled around the box, not sure if you wanted it to continue playing. Or to make it stop reminding you of a moment that would never return. How many times have you seen your grandma smile, even when you were a tiring brat, after she choked out an ugly cough, or during the times she waved to you goodbye when you had to leave. “It would be a waste of my life if I spent it unhappy, now wouldn’t it?” Gran had answered you once, asking why she always smiled no matter rain or shine. Had it been you who dealt with your own antics, all the days would be filled with groans and frowns. “The world’s a better place for everyone when you smile,” she added with a calmness over her eyes, holding you close as you hummed to her answer.

Those memories faded away, notes bridging over to another section of the song. Your eyes got lost in the box, fiddling with the souvenir coins grandmother stored and then looking over the torn out articles, it was announcing the opening of museums, gardens, and a new amusement park for couples and families to enjoy. She always loved fun lively venues…

Your eyes caught sight of a beige neglected sheet in the box. The musical box had completely taken over your attention, that the last item at the bottom was almost forgotten. A single paper adorned with folds, dents, and crinkles around the corner, some specs of dirt here and there, along with a big penciled header ‘Bucket List’ in a messy cursive style.

Following the title came a sentence that echoed like you had heard it a million times.

Life’s too short to keep saving for someday.

Something you’ve heard your grandfather say every time you postponed or procrastinated things you kept for later. That man had a way with words, especially for a ten year-old who did not yet understand how philosophical life could be.

A list of activities and plans filled the rest of the sheet. Some were shown complete with a checkmark, while others were left empty. Many were so ordinary, so domestic.

. . .

Learn somebody’s stories. ✓

Watch Manhattan wake up. ✓

Get lost on purpose.

Find a place that feels like home.

Go to a drive-in movie. ✓

Have one unforgettable day without my camera.

Eat ice-cream for dinner. ✓

Fly a kite. ✓

Visit every record store I can find. ✓

Be there for the people I love.

Write a letter I’ll never send.

. . .

The list continued for a few more entries, margins filled with rewritten ideas, while others were crossed out, as if whoever wrote this had far too many dreams and aspirations for life. Unsure of what to put down first. Likely in a hurry to write as well, coffee and an orangy stain colored the edges of the paper. And pen swirls in the top-most corner, something your grandfather did to test a pen’s ink.

. . .

Cook pancakes without setting off fire alarms.

Beat the old man at dancing ← He got moves!

Visit the Statue of Liberty.

Watch the sunset with somebody.

. . .

It hurt. It hurt to see someone who could think of something so small, so simple, and consider it bucket list worthy. Everything about this was filled with love and thought. The paper wasn’t perfect. The handwriting was messy, some words darker than others—caused by too much pressure—and the crinkles, stains, and scratches all said that this could have been thrown away if it were anyone else who wrote this. But here it was. In your hands. Saved in a box of memories, something to look back on.

He lived his life. Grandpa sounded like someone who was happy with even the smallest of moments. Did he have any regrets? Was he surviving on the edge until he saved enough for someday? Did Grandpa go down a path that he never truly wanted…?

He always had something to say, with stories to tell. There were still quite a few unchecked items on this list, yet Grandpa looked satisfied even as he passed away. Could you do the same? If the world had ended, would it be true to say you lived life…?

As your throat clogged with unsaid questions and an aching heart, your mind asked questions only you could answer. The music box gradually reached its end, light dings that rang in your ears, comforting your sadness until you were ready.

When would you stop trying to survive?

Okay. Hold up. Recap! You snapped a photo of your wall with an old camera that sounded plastic-like and rattly every time you shook it and—somehow—you were now standing in front of the one and only Brooklyn Bridge?!

How on earth did you get here?! Oh, wait trick question, because no one here knows the goddamn answer to that!

Were you possessed for a moment? Possibly slept walked and flew all the way to New York City with a camera in hand… Make it make sense, you cried in your mind to no one in particular, desperately trying to understand the whole situation.

As you scanned your surroundings frantically—dropping the very innocent Canon in the process, as it rolled until it fell on its back—passersby were strolling along a path, few couples hand-in-hand, children running ahead of their parents, and a middle-aged gentleman reading amongst himself, flipping through the gossip-filled newspaper. A sign beside you that read “Brooklyn Heights Promenade” had said all that you needed to know as to where you were.

Despite your eyes having to skitter and dart to every new object within your vision; it, in fact, did not help ease anything and only added to your panic. The possibility of this being a dream had washed over you… However, that reasoning only lasted a second when the horrid sensation of wet socks seeped between your toes. The feeling prompted a quick look to the ground; your feet were soaked inside a shallow puddle. No dream could replicate the squishy discomfort of watery clothing. You quickly hopped out of the thin pool, failing miserably as you shook your feet dry—which rewarded you a glance or two from others.

Noticing the attention you were receiving, you zoomed to the nearest teenager, staring like a deer in headlights as you cried out, “where am I right now?” The startled citizen flinched to the far-out stare in this crazed-looking person and then peeped out the words New York City before fleeing away.

The realization slowly settled—you aimlessly stumbled back to the iron fence and shallow sheet of water—this was not a dream. You were in New York City, no doubt about it. And worst of all—in your pajamas. If there had been a warning, you would have at least tried to pick a better outfit.

Alright, no! That’s not even remotely important right now! Reminding yourself of the actual problem at hand.

Americans and tourists of all ages and generations continued to walk by as you quietly went through a total meltdown; though, something about this atmosphere ticked your brain. It was an effect that made you feel foreign, like you were the odd one out.

That strange hunch gradually became clear as your gaze glanced towards the middle aged man; he wore a gray suit set that paired with his checkered tie and a worn down fedora—that’s such a vintage style, you thought rather impressed with the elder bringing retro back—but it did not end there, leaving your eyes from the man to a group of young women who passed by giggling, most of them rocked a pair of flare jeans and leather boots; meanwhile their feathery blown out hairstyles spoke enough volumes as to when they were dressing…

Was there a festival going on nearby? You wondered if there had been another random American holiday you managed to forget about—maybe a ‘dress like the 80s day.’ “It feels like I just traveled to the past,” muttering your thoughts aloud as a man in hippie clothing passed you by. Jokingly making the thought that you jumped into a Back to the Future timeline, which was literal nonsense. Seemingly forgetting the fact that teleporting more than seven-hundred miles away from your home was not exactly normal either. It’s not like you had an obvious explanation for whatever happened, but no matter what, traveling into the past was beyond crazy.

You needed a change of position, turning to lean your elbows on the fence—it was time to wrap your head around how you’d get out of New York City. Your pockets were empty and to top it off you were only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, so by definition you had nothing to your name.

“God, how the hell did I get here?!” You constantly racked your brain for some sort of memory that could explain all this. Ruffling your uncombed damp hair like it had the answers underneath.

Just before all this, you were beside the bed holding a camera, then took a quick picture of your wall and poof! You arrived in NYC. There was that weird already-developed picture in the viewfinder, and it surprisingly had the exact same skyline as the one in front of you right now. As you looked towards the buildings glistening under the afternoon sun, your fingers began to tangle and tug around your hair as you tried to recall the cause of this predicament.

Despite the panic thumping in your throat, the view was breathtaking.

The glittering Manhattan skyline shone with pride as the Brooklyn Bridge arched out towards the city, and distinct car honking sounded in the distance. Not to mention the iconic buildings that could only belong to New York: the Empire State, the Chrysler building, and the Twin Towers rivaling them all—you thought to yourself before your mind blanked.

.

.

.

Every organ in your body felt like they had sunk six feet into the ground.

The Twin Towers?!

The very gone and destroyed Twin Towers! Your knees met the ground before your brain could even load. Life drained from your face as though you had quite literally seen a ghost. There was no way. No how! That the Twin Towers were standing before you like nothing happened! Everything froze at that point, your heart dropped under the pavement, blood ran cold, and goosebumps rose from every possible follicle in your skin.

It was scientifically impossible—actually, physically impossible for them to rebuild the towers within a day, let alone without masses of news channels reporting it on every outlet. As your mind melted against its skull and heart rammed a mile per second, your eyes shifted to different focal points, you needed something to ground you, to explain that this was all a stage built for a play or—or a film, anything! And then the gray suited man on the bench came to view. You scrambled on your feet to ask him the final lingering question.

“Hey, ‘scuse me—what’s today’s date?” Asking like there was a mouse caught in your throat, fear got hold of you, because whatever this stranger said next could alter your entire brain schema. The man peeked from under his hat, closing the newspaper to view the exact date on the New York Times header. “August 18th, a Thursday.” His matter-of-fact baritone voice clarified, which frankly did not make sense because today was a Tuesday “No, I mean—” taking it upon yourself to read the current year yourself. Leaning in to find:

New York, Thursday, August 18, 1977

You wanted to laugh, to scoff at the preposterousness that was time travel. Your mouth was left ajar as you walked away from the confused male, likely noting you as some runaway street-kid who woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and wearing inappropriate clothing in broad daylight.

To your dismay, no one could answer the million questions running in your mind. So many hows and whys that would remain unanswered, because not a soul in this world would believe you had time traveled back to the days of Jazz and face-to-face communication. No social media, zero cellphones, and not a single yoga pant in sight. It was 1977 and you were in denial.

Back to the same iron fence, you stared out to the city. Retracing your steps to find what may have caused this entire situation. Did you offhandedly wish to go back in time like those TV shows and a divine force granted it true?

No, no, no! That wasn’t it.

And like a moth to a flame, a glint attracted your attention. The old Canon left abandoned on the bricked pavement. It was the very camera that held a perfectly developed photo of the 80s—now discovered 1977—city view inside the eyepiece, despite it being unusual and practically impossible for a picture to be naturally burnt inside a camera lens.

Out of suspicion, the camera was not left neglected this time, picking it up from its cobbled spot near the iron fence. Adjusting the device in your hold before peeking through the finder like you previously done in the bedroom. Would you see the New York City view once again?

Like déjà vu, you saw your home, or more specifically the wall of your apartment and the dresser below. Should you laugh at how silly this all feels? Regardless of the overflowing emotions that ran past you all at once, your finger slipped to the trigger and the never-ending sounds of cars and breezy air ceased.

To your relief—gently removing the camera from your sight in anticipation—you were standing in the center of your room, everything was just as it had been before you left, and your very modern phone was resting on the bed covers. In a hurry, you ran to check the date, worried that you were sent too far in the future this time—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Your screen reading the date that you knew and now loved: August 18, Tuesday, 2026

A breath of sweet respite left your lungs, resting your head on your cool bedding like it had been far too long. You wanted to never part ways ever again.

As your heart and running mind began to calm slowly, it left more room to contemplate the strangeness you had just encountered; the black hued plastic of the camera filled your sight, like it teasingly knew of what it just put you through. Not a minute was wasted when you stood to put the device away. Storing it in the same corner of the box and closing it shut. Who knew what other sorcery objects were buried here, you certainly did not want to wait and find out.

There was a guilt ridden feeling in your gut that held you back from tossing the whole thing away, so you shoved it under the bed and pretended like it was all an elaborate dream. Your life was already in enough haywire; a teleporting camera thingamabob was not something you needed right now. Speaking of needing something; these socks have got to go—hopping on your feet to remove the dirty puddle socks. This didn’t happen and those socks got dirty from a combination of the dusty floors and your just-showered feet… Yep, keep convincing yourself with that.

It had been a week since that time traveling incident, and you were trying your absolute hardest to not even allow it to cross your mind. Were you successful? No, no, you were not. Everything about it had your heart kicking. There was a strange feeling radiating from that box, like it was calling out for someone… And in a way, it felt intimate, warmness meant only for you. But no matter how many times your mind tried to think about the box, you resisted with every nerve.

Not until a random day at work did you finally think to give it a chance.

August 25, once again, another Tuesday. The lovely sound of credit cards being charged on the machine and milk steamers buzzed in the air as coffee lovers and table-hoggers enjoyed their afternoon. Thank god you didn’t receive any of those ‘special order’ customers—they had a tendency of being extra technical with details—for every time you faced one of them, you were a couple iced coffees with twenty pumps of caramel away from a social meltdown.

The ambient piano covers played in the background speakers when another take-out latte had been completed, which allowed a certain Ella to slide into your bubble.

“So~ Camera illusions, huh?” She had mentioned this topic yet again, after you had passionately—delusionally in your friend’s eyes—explained that it sent you back to the 1970s. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then go back to your espressos.”

“I am not making fun of you! Just—what if you had a really bad dream or something? I mean, sent to New York in just socks and sweats? Sounds like a total fashion nightmare to me.”

You wanted to correct her, specify that it was 1977 New York, but what good would that do you—she doesn’t even believe the teleporting part. Honestly, it was hard for even you to understand… This wasn’t some random fluke that could have happened to anyone. You quite literally traveled back to the 20th century with the help of an old rattling camera.

No matter how many sleepless nights you had after constant nightmares of being sent to the witch hunting era, you could never consider it as just a crazy dream or hallucination. If it were a dream, then that was it and any more thinking would be a waste of brain space; but if you were truly sent to the past… Then—

“Maybe it was a dream,” Ella spoke up as she cleaned out the espresso portafilter, “but who’s to say it didn’t mean something?” You blinked at the girl beside you; an eyebrow rose that dared to ask what she was trying to say.

She hummed thoughtfully before continuing on, something that Ella did when she did not want to ramble out silly possibilities, your friend likely felt that you were more hung up on this incident than you let on. “You know I believe things happen for a reason, right? So, what if this was a sign for you to get out of your shell for once?” She slightly lowered her voice at the end. Before you could retaliate with the same word of ‘I’m happy with my life,’ Ella cut you off; “You and I both know you’re not happy with whatever you got going on right now! Don’t tell me you are actually excited to get a degree in the world of boring suits and bowties.” Also known as business administration in English.

“Take a gap year, who cares if you finish later, the job market literally cannot get any more dogshit than it is now. You need to enjoy your life, not speed-run through it like a hedgehog!” She rapped back without a breath and let her frustration by toweling the already dried utensils.

“Hedgehogs don’t speed though—” Attempting to update her information, but received a serious faced Ella instead, tight lipped and all, “I am trying to make a point!”

“Okay, okay! I hear you. I’ll do some ‘soul searching’ or whatever you call it.” Air quoting with a plastic cup and black marker in hand.

“Good.” And to that, the Ella Ted Talk™ has been concluded, leaving you with your own thoughts. Thankfully, the number of customers coming in for their midday cup of Joe would keep you busy from your head for now.

So… Here you were. With your apartment. And the box under your bed. You were fairly sure when Ella said take a gap year, she probably meant to go explore the world or however else people do it… Not trying to go to the past like a conspiracy theorist. You did not completely believe that the camera actually took you back there, but it was the only logical explanation—wait, no! What logical?! Nothing about this was logical! Oh god, now it was messing with your brain.

You paced around your flat for what was five long minutes, which felt like an hour of creaking on the wooden flooring and the strands of your sock getting snatched in the unpolished planks. If… If there was even a 1% chance of that ‘hallucination’ being real—and you actually time traveled, then you would just need to check for yourself… Right?

Sure, the week before that box showed up you were under so much stress, exams were crawling up your shoulders, textbooks were replacing the boogieman in your nightmares, and countless all-nighters were taking up your sleep schedule. So, it wouldn’t be strange that you started imagining the craziest scenarios, like being sent to the days before your parents met—were they even born yet?!

God, you were thinking far too much; it was about time you just ripped the band-aid off. Pulling out the cardboard box from its prison under your bed, swiftly swiping off a week’s worth of dust from the top before opening it up. Revealing the treasures you so hoped to ignore… And was that photo always there—?

The moment you opened up the box flaps, a familiar photo sat atop everything else, like it was purposely waiting for your attention. A perfectly developed picture of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from the Promenade—the same exact image you saw in the viewfinder, meaning the same one that you were sent to in the 1970s. Yeah, totally not terrifying at all… Chills ran down your spine, alarms blared in your mind screaming, that was not there before! Your reflexes kicked the box back under the bed—nope, not doing this today!

“Just take me! That’s it, I know you’re in here, you weird ass boogeyman,” yelling it for the neighbors to hear at this point, “just kill me already! C’mon, quick and painful!” Darting your sight to random corners of your fairly small flat, checking under the bed for some big bad burglar who’s playing a prank on you.

Sadly, to say the least, there was no robber, thief, or gigantic spider coming to reap your soul. How unfortunate… Falling on your back, the fluffy rug below, and staring out to the ceiling. A breath of what one would assume was frustration, maybe confusion, slipped past your lips. Your mind felt like it was racing with questions and possibilities, yet none at all. Thoughts moved far too fast for you to catch them, only making your head overheat from brain abuse caused by that stupid box.

Each inhale expanding your lungs was counting the seconds passing, and every exhale was a reminder of how you had nothing to lose. To your side, you saw the kicked box under the bed, sitting as if it could wait forever. Would it though?

Before your head got all panicky again, you sat up to pull in the box. No time like the present. Still somewhat opened, except with a new folded dent to the outer flap, caused by a certain someone’s quick swift kick. There it was, that photo. The reason for your hysterical week.

From your view, everything was mixed, jumbled, and stacked on top one another. Old captured memories, couple loose ticket stubs stuck between the box and a wooden chest, a curled up newspaper, and many other items that have tested the length of time. Including that camera…

First things first, there was no way you could search this entire pile while it was still a mess. You rolled up your sleeves and mentally cheered yourself on. Turning on a quick song to organize to while time passes by.

...queue background music...

Your shoulders danced as Maxine sang in her soulful melodies, mouthing with the lyrics as you laid each item in groups on your bed. Photos among photos, little trinkets clustered in another corner, papers and newspapers stacked to the side, concert ticket stubs, postcards, a folded paper of pressed flowers, and so many more physical memories in small bits and pieces were given a spot on your duvet.

Love is good, love can be strong! Maxine truthfully sang as you lifted the mini chest from the box and put it on your nightstand, the bed was already covered in groups of memorabilia, it would get too cluttered to add the chest as well. Floral designs were carved into the dark fruity colored wood, and a painted vine of roses greeted you from the top of the lid; caressing this little box that pressed on through time, your finger grazed upon a stuck out metal key. Reeling in your attention, a golden plated hand-crank chilled from a lack of warm touch. You lifted the wooden lid up, finding a glass protecting the musical mechanics of the instrument, meanwhile old dirtied coins and cut-out newspaper articles sat atop the glass. It was a music box, you realized, and cranked the handle to check if it still works. The R&B tunes phased out in the background, your breath held in as you expected a melodious ding.

…queue music box playing over…

And by god it did, magical twinkles and chimes danced around your apartment space. A single note took you back years. A single note surrounded you of memories as grandmother twirled in the kitchen, humming a tune you only knew as hers. Clanks of pots and pans accompanying her melodies, grandfather watching in admiration, a time when you could only be so carefree, so happy, and unaware of anything that was to come.

Hands hovered and stalled around the box, not sure if you wanted it to continue playing. Or to make it stop reminding you of a moment that would never return. How many times have you seen your grandma smile, even when you were a tiring brat, after she choked out an ugly cough, or during the times she waved to you goodbye when you had to leave. “It would be a waste of my life if I spent it unhappy, now wouldn’t it?” Gran had answered you once, asking why she always smiled no matter rain or shine. Had it been you who dealt with your own antics, all the days would be filled with groans and frowns. “The world’s a better place for everyone when you smile,” she added with a calmness over her eyes, holding you close as you hummed to her answer.

Those memories faded away, notes bridging over to another section of the song. Your eyes got lost in the box, fiddling with the souvenir coins grandmother stored and then looking over the torn out articles, it was announcing the opening of museums, gardens, and a new amusement park for couples and families to enjoy. She always loved fun lively venues…

Your eyes caught sight of a beige neglected sheet in the box. The musical box had completely taken over your attention, that the last item at the bottom was almost forgotten. A single paper adorned with folds, dents, and crinkles around the corner, some specs of dirt here and there, along with a big penciled header ‘Bucket List’ in a messy cursive style.

Following the title came a sentence that echoed like you had heard it a million times.

Life’s too short to keep saving for someday.

Something you’ve heard your grandfather say every time you postponed or procrastinated things you kept for later. That man had a way with words, especially for a ten year-old who did not yet understand how philosophical life could be.

A list of activities and plans filled the rest of the sheet. Some were shown complete with a checkmark, while others were left empty. Many were so ordinary, so domestic.

. . .

Learn somebody’s stories. ✓

Watch Manhattan wake up. ✓

Get lost on purpose.

Find a place that feels like home.

Go to a drive-in movie. ✓

Have one unforgettable day without my camera.

Eat ice-cream for dinner. ✓

Fly a kite. ✓

Visit every record store I can find. ✓

Be there for the people I love.

Write a letter I’ll never send.

. . .

The list continued for a few more entries, margins filled with rewritten ideas, while others were crossed out, as if whoever wrote this had far too many dreams and aspirations for life. Unsure of what to put down first. Likely in a hurry to write as well, coffee and an orangy stain colored the edges of the paper. And pen swirls in the top-most corner, something your grandfather did to test a pen’s ink.

. . .

Cook pancakes without setting off fire alarms.

Beat the old man at dancing ← He got moves!

Visit the Statue of Liberty.

Watch the sunset with somebody.

. . .

It hurt. It hurt to see someone who could think of something so small, so simple, and consider it bucket list worthy. Everything about this was filled with love and thought. The paper wasn’t perfect. The handwriting was messy, some words darker than others—caused by too much pressure—and the crinkles, stains, and scratches all said that this could have been thrown away if it were anyone else who wrote this. But here it was. In your hands. Saved in a box of memories, something to look back on.

He lived his life. Grandpa sounded like someone who was happy with even the smallest of moments. Did he have any regrets? Was he surviving on the edge until he saved enough for someday? Did Grandpa go down a path that he never truly wanted…?

He always had something to say, with stories to tell. There were still quite a few unchecked items on this list, yet Grandpa looked satisfied even as he passed away. Could you do the same? If the world had ended, would it be true to say you lived life…?

As your throat clogged with unsaid questions and an aching heart, your mind asked questions only you could answer. The music box gradually reached its end, light dings that rang in your ears, comforting your sadness until you were ready.

When would you stop trying to survive?

Okay. Hold up. Recap! You snapped a photo of your wall with an old camera that sounded plastic-like and rattly every time you shook it and—somehow—you were now standing in front of the one and only Brooklyn Bridge?!

How on earth did you get here?! Oh, wait trick question, because no one here knows the goddamn answer to that!

Were you possessed for a moment? Possibly slept walked and flew all the way to New York City with a camera in hand… Make it make sense, you cried in your mind to no one in particular, desperately trying to understand the whole situation.

As you scanned your surroundings frantically—dropping the very innocent Canon in the process, as it rolled until it fell on its back—passersby were strolling along a path, few couples hand-in-hand, children running ahead of their parents, and a middle-aged gentleman reading amongst himself, flipping through the gossip-filled newspaper. A sign beside you that read “Brooklyn Heights Promenade” had said all that you needed to know as to where you were.

Despite your eyes having to skitter and dart to every new object within your vision; it, in fact, did not help ease anything and only added to your panic. The possibility of this being a dream had washed over you… However, that reasoning only lasted a second when the horrid sensation of wet socks seeped between your toes. The feeling prompted a quick look to the ground; your feet were soaked inside a shallow puddle. No dream could replicate the squishy discomfort of watery clothing. You quickly hopped out of the thin pool, failing miserably as you shook your feet dry—which rewarded you a glance or two from others.

Noticing the attention you were receiving, you zoomed to the nearest teenager, staring like a deer in headlights as you cried out, “where am I right now?” The startled citizen flinched to the far-out stare in this crazed-looking person and then peeped out the words New York City before fleeing away.

The realization slowly settled—you aimlessly stumbled back to the iron fence and shallow sheet of water—this was not a dream. You were in New York City, no doubt about it. And worst of all—in your pajamas. If there had been a warning, you would have at least tried to pick a better outfit.

Alright, no! That’s not even remotely important right now! Reminding yourself of the actual problem at hand.

Americans and tourists of all ages and generations continued to walk by as you quietly went through a total meltdown; though, something about this atmosphere ticked your brain. It was an effect that made you feel foreign, like you were the odd one out.

That strange hunch gradually became clear as your gaze glanced towards the middle aged man; he wore a gray suit set that paired with his checkered tie and a worn down fedora—that’s such a vintage style, you thought rather impressed with the elder bringing retro back—but it did not end there, leaving your eyes from the man to a group of young women who passed by giggling, most of them rocked a pair of flare jeans and leather boots; meanwhile their feathery blown out hairstyles spoke enough volumes as to when they were dressing…

Was there a festival going on nearby? You wondered if there had been another random American holiday you managed to forget about—maybe a ‘dress like the 80s day.’ “It feels like I just traveled to the past,” muttering your thoughts aloud as a man in hippie clothing passed you by. Jokingly making the thought that you jumped into a Back to the Future timeline, which was literal nonsense. Seemingly forgetting the fact that teleporting more than seven-hundred miles away from your home was not exactly normal either. It’s not like you had an obvious explanation for whatever happened, but no matter what, traveling into the past was beyond crazy.

You needed a change of position, turning to lean your elbows on the fence—it was time to wrap your head around how you’d get out of New York City. Your pockets were empty and to top it off you were only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, so by definition you had nothing to your name.

“God, how the hell did I get here?!” You constantly racked your brain for some sort of memory that could explain all this. Ruffling your uncombed damp hair like it had the answers underneath.

Just before all this, you were beside the bed holding a camera, then took a quick picture of your wall and poof! You arrived in NYC. There was that weird already-developed picture in the viewfinder, and it surprisingly had the exact same skyline as the one in front of you right now. As you looked towards the buildings glistening under the afternoon sun, your fingers began to tangle and tug around your hair as you tried to recall the cause of this predicament.

Despite the panic thumping in your throat, the view was breathtaking.

The glittering Manhattan skyline shone with pride as the Brooklyn Bridge arched out towards the city, and distinct car honking sounded in the distance. Not to mention the iconic buildings that could only belong to New York: the Empire State, the Chrysler building, and the Twin Towers rivaling them all—you thought to yourself before your mind blanked.

.

.

.

Every organ in your body felt like they had sunk six feet into the ground.

The Twin Towers?!

The very gone and destroyed Twin Towers! Your knees met the ground before your brain could even load. Life drained from your face as though you had quite literally seen a ghost. There was no way. No how! That the Twin Towers were standing before you like nothing happened! Everything froze at that point, your heart dropped under the pavement, blood ran cold, and goosebumps rose from every possible follicle in your skin.

It was scientifically impossible—actually, physically impossible for them to rebuild the towers within a day, let alone without masses of news channels reporting it on every outlet. As your mind melted against its skull and heart rammed a mile per second, your eyes shifted to different focal points, you needed something to ground you, to explain that this was all a stage built for a play or—or a film, anything! And then the gray suited man on the bench came to view. You scrambled on your feet to ask him the final lingering question.

“Hey, ‘scuse me—what’s today’s date?” Asking like there was a mouse caught in your throat, fear got hold of you, because whatever this stranger said next could alter your entire brain schema. The man peeked from under his hat, closing the newspaper to view the exact date on the New York Times header. “August 18th, a Thursday.” His matter-of-fact baritone voice clarified, which frankly did not make sense because today was a Tuesday “No, I mean—” taking it upon yourself to read the current year yourself. Leaning in to find:

New York, Thursday, August 18, 1977

You wanted to laugh, to scoff at the preposterousness that was time travel. Your mouth was left ajar as you walked away from the confused male, likely noting you as some runaway street-kid who woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and wearing inappropriate clothing in broad daylight.

To your dismay, no one could answer the million questions running in your mind. So many hows and whys that would remain unanswered, because not a soul in this world would believe you had time traveled back to the days of Jazz and face-to-face communication. No social media, zero cellphones, and not a single yoga pant in sight. It was 1977 and you were in denial.

Back to the same iron fence, you stared out to the city. Retracing your steps to find what may have caused this entire situation. Did you offhandedly wish to go back in time like those TV shows and a divine force granted it true?

No, no, no! That wasn’t it.

And like a moth to a flame, a glint attracted your attention. The old Canon left abandoned on the bricked pavement. It was the very camera that held a perfectly developed photo of the 80s—now discovered 1977—city view inside the eyepiece, despite it being unusual and practically impossible for a picture to be naturally burnt inside a camera lens.

Out of suspicion, the camera was not left neglected this time, picking it up from its cobbled spot near the iron fence. Adjusting the device in your hold before peeking through the finder like you previously done in the bedroom. Would you see the New York City view once again?

Like déjà vu, you saw your home, or more specifically the wall of your apartment and the dresser below. Should you laugh at how silly this all feels? Regardless of the overflowing emotions that ran past you all at once, your finger slipped to the trigger and the never-ending sounds of cars and breezy air ceased.

To your relief—gently removing the camera from your sight in anticipation—you were standing in the center of your room, everything was just as it had been before you left, and your very modern phone was resting on the bed covers. In a hurry, you ran to check the date, worried that you were sent too far in the future this time—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Your screen reading the date that you knew and now loved: August 18, Tuesday, 2026

A breath of sweet respite left your lungs, resting your head on your cool bedding like it had been far too long. You wanted to never part ways ever again.

As your heart and running mind began to calm slowly, it left more room to contemplate the strangeness you had just encountered; the black hued plastic of the camera filled your sight, like it teasingly knew of what it just put you through. Not a minute was wasted when you stood to put the device away. Storing it in the same corner of the box and closing it shut. Who knew what other sorcery objects were buried here, you certainly did not want to wait and find out.

There was a guilt ridden feeling in your gut that held you back from tossing the whole thing away, so you shoved it under the bed and pretended like it was all an elaborate dream. Your life was already in enough haywire; a teleporting camera thingamabob was not something you needed right now. Speaking of needing something; these socks have got to go—hopping on your feet to remove the dirty puddle socks. This didn’t happen and those socks got dirty from a combination of the dusty floors and your just-showered feet… Yep, keep convincing yourself with that.

It had been a week since that time traveling incident, and you were trying your absolute hardest to not even allow it to cross your mind. Were you successful? No, no, you were not. Everything about it had your heart kicking. There was a strange feeling radiating from that box, like it was calling out for someone… And in a way, it felt intimate, warmness meant only for you. But no matter how many times your mind tried to think about the box, you resisted with every nerve.

Not until a random day at work did you finally think to give it a chance.

August 25, once again, another Tuesday. The lovely sound of credit cards being charged on the machine and milk steamers buzzed in the air as coffee lovers and table-hoggers enjoyed their afternoon. Thank god you didn’t receive any of those ‘special order’ customers—they had a tendency of being extra technical with details—for every time you faced one of them, you were a couple iced coffees with twenty pumps of caramel away from a social meltdown.

The ambient piano covers played in the background speakers when another take-out latte had been completed, which allowed a certain Ella to slide into your bubble.

“So~ Camera illusions, huh?” She had mentioned this topic yet again, after you had passionately—delusionally in your friend’s eyes—explained that it sent you back to the 1970s. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then go back to your espressos.”

“I am not making fun of you! Just—what if you had a really bad dream or something? I mean, sent to New York in just socks and sweats? Sounds like a total fashion nightmare to me.”

You wanted to correct her, specify that it was 1977 New York, but what good would that do you—she doesn’t even believe the teleporting part. Honestly, it was hard for even you to understand… This wasn’t some random fluke that could have happened to anyone. You quite literally traveled back to the 20th century with the help of an old rattling camera.

No matter how many sleepless nights you had after constant nightmares of being sent to the witch hunting era, you could never consider it as just a crazy dream or hallucination. If it were a dream, then that was it and any more thinking would be a waste of brain space; but if you were truly sent to the past… Then—

“Maybe it was a dream,” Ella spoke up as she cleaned out the espresso portafilter, “but who’s to say it didn’t mean something?” You blinked at the girl beside you; an eyebrow rose that dared to ask what she was trying to say.

She hummed thoughtfully before continuing on, something that Ella did when she did not want to ramble out silly possibilities, your friend likely felt that you were more hung up on this incident than you let on. “You know I believe things happen for a reason, right? So, what if this was a sign for you to get out of your shell for once?” She slightly lowered her voice at the end. Before you could retaliate with the same word of ‘I’m happy with my life,’ Ella cut you off; “You and I both know you’re not happy with whatever you got going on right now! Don’t tell me you are actually excited to get a degree in the world of boring suits and bowties.” Also known as business administration in English.

“Take a gap year, who cares if you finish later, the job market literally cannot get any more dogshit than it is now. You need to enjoy your life, not speed-run through it like a hedgehog!” She rapped back without a breath and let her frustration by toweling the already dried utensils.

“Hedgehogs don’t speed though—” Attempting to update her information, but received a serious faced Ella instead, tight lipped and all, “I am trying to make a point!”

“Okay, okay! I hear you. I’ll do some ‘soul searching’ or whatever you call it.” Air quoting with a plastic cup and black marker in hand.

“Good.” And to that, the Ella Ted Talk™ has been concluded, leaving you with your own thoughts. Thankfully, the number of customers coming in for their midday cup of Joe would keep you busy from your head for now.

So… Here you were. With your apartment. And the box under your bed. You were fairly sure when Ella said take a gap year, she probably meant to go explore the world or however else people do it… Not trying to go to the past like a conspiracy theorist. You did not completely believe that the camera actually took you back there, but it was the only logical explanation—wait, no! What logical?! Nothing about this was logical! Oh god, now it was messing with your brain.

You paced around your flat for what was five long minutes, which felt like an hour of creaking on the wooden flooring and the strands of your sock getting snatched in the unpolished planks. If… If there was even a 1% chance of that ‘hallucination’ being real—and you actually time traveled, then you would just need to check for yourself… Right?

Sure, the week before that box showed up you were under so much stress, exams were crawling up your shoulders, textbooks were replacing the boogieman in your nightmares, and countless all-nighters were taking up your sleep schedule. So, it wouldn’t be strange that you started imagining the craziest scenarios, like being sent to the days before your parents met—were they even born yet?!

God, you were thinking far too much; it was about time you just ripped the band-aid off. Pulling out the cardboard box from its prison under your bed, swiftly swiping off a week’s worth of dust from the top before opening it up. Revealing the treasures you so hoped to ignore… And was that photo always there—?

The moment you opened up the box flaps, a familiar photo sat atop everything else, like it was purposely waiting for your attention. A perfectly developed picture of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from the Promenade—the same exact image you saw in the viewfinder, meaning the same one that you were sent to in the 1970s. Yeah, totally not terrifying at all… Chills ran down your spine, alarms blared in your mind screaming, that was not there before! Your reflexes kicked the box back under the bed—nope, not doing this today!

“Just take me! That’s it, I know you’re in here, you weird ass boogeyman,” yelling it for the neighbors to hear at this point, “just kill me already! C’mon, quick and painful!” Darting your sight to random corners of your fairly small flat, checking under the bed for some big bad burglar who’s playing a prank on you.

Sadly, to say the least, there was no robber, thief, or gigantic spider coming to reap your soul. How unfortunate… Falling on your back, the fluffy rug below, and staring out to the ceiling. A breath of what one would assume was frustration, maybe confusion, slipped past your lips. Your mind felt like it was racing with questions and possibilities, yet none at all. Thoughts moved far too fast for you to catch them, only making your head overheat from brain abuse caused by that stupid box.

Each inhale expanding your lungs was counting the seconds passing, and every exhale was a reminder of how you had nothing to lose. To your side, you saw the kicked box under the bed, sitting as if it could wait forever. Would it though?

Before your head got all panicky again, you sat up to pull in the box. No time like the present. Still somewhat opened, except with a new folded dent to the outer flap, caused by a certain someone’s quick swift kick. There it was, that photo. The reason for your hysterical week.

From your view, everything was mixed, jumbled, and stacked on top one another. Old captured memories, couple loose ticket stubs stuck between the box and a wooden chest, a curled up newspaper, and many other items that have tested the length of time. Including that camera…

First things first, there was no way you could search this entire pile while it was still a mess. You rolled up your sleeves and mentally cheered yourself on. Turning on a quick song to organize to while time passes by.

...queue background music...

Your shoulders danced as Maxine sang in her soulful melodies, mouthing with the lyrics as you laid each item in groups on your bed. Photos among photos, little trinkets clustered in another corner, papers and newspapers stacked to the side, concert ticket stubs, postcards, a folded paper of pressed flowers, and so many more physical memories in small bits and pieces were given a spot on your duvet.

Love is good, love can be strong! Maxine truthfully sang as you lifted the mini chest from the box and put it on your nightstand, the bed was already covered in groups of memorabilia, it would get too cluttered to add the chest as well. Floral designs were carved into the dark fruity colored wood, and a painted vine of roses greeted you from the top of the lid; caressing this little box that pressed on through time, your finger grazed upon a stuck out metal key. Reeling in your attention, a golden plated hand-crank chilled from a lack of warm touch. You lifted the wooden lid up, finding a glass protecting the musical mechanics of the instrument, meanwhile old dirtied coins and cut-out newspaper articles sat atop the glass. It was a music box, you realized, and cranked the handle to check if it still works. The R&B tunes phased out in the background, your breath held in as you expected a melodious ding.

…queue music box playing over…

And by god it did, magical twinkles and chimes danced around your apartment space. A single note took you back years. A single note surrounded you of memories as grandmother twirled in the kitchen, humming a tune you only knew as hers. Clanks of pots and pans accompanying her melodies, grandfather watching in admiration, a time when you could only be so carefree, so happy, and unaware of anything that was to come.

Hands hovered and stalled around the box, not sure if you wanted it to continue playing. Or to make it stop reminding you of a moment that would never return. How many times have you seen your grandma smile, even when you were a tiring brat, after she choked out an ugly cough, or during the times she waved to you goodbye when you had to leave. “It would be a waste of my life if I spent it unhappy, now wouldn’t it?” Gran had answered you once, asking why she always smiled no matter rain or shine. Had it been you who dealt with your own antics, all the days would be filled with groans and frowns. “The world’s a better place for everyone when you smile,” she added with a calmness over her eyes, holding you close as you hummed to her answer.

Those memories faded away, notes bridging over to another section of the song. Your eyes got lost in the box, fiddling with the souvenir coins grandmother stored and then looking over the torn out articles, it was announcing the opening of museums, gardens, and a new amusement park for couples and families to enjoy. She always loved fun lively venues…

Your eyes caught sight of a beige neglected sheet in the box. The musical box had completely taken over your attention, that the last item at the bottom was almost forgotten. A single paper adorned with folds, dents, and crinkles around the corner, some specs of dirt here and there, along with a big penciled header ‘Bucket List’ in a messy cursive style.

Following the title came a sentence that echoed like you had heard it a million times.

Life’s too short to keep saving for someday.

Something you’ve heard your grandfather say every time you postponed or procrastinated things you kept for later. That man had a way with words, especially for a ten year-old who did not yet understand how philosophical life could be.

A list of activities and plans filled the rest of the sheet. Some were shown complete with a checkmark, while others were left empty. Many were so ordinary, so domestic.

. . .

Learn somebody’s stories. ✓

Watch Manhattan wake up. ✓

Get lost on purpose.

Find a place that feels like home.

Go to a drive-in movie. ✓

Have one unforgettable day without my camera.

Eat ice-cream for dinner. ✓

Fly a kite. ✓

Visit every record store I can find. ✓

Be there for the people I love.

Write a letter I’ll never send.

. . .

The list continued for a few more entries, margins filled with rewritten ideas, while others were crossed out, as if whoever wrote this had far too many dreams and aspirations for life. Unsure of what to put down first. Likely in a hurry to write as well, coffee and an orangy stain colored the edges of the paper. And pen swirls in the top-most corner, something your grandfather did to test a pen’s ink.

. . .

Cook pancakes without setting off fire alarms.

Beat the old man at dancing ← He got moves!

Visit the Statue of Liberty.

Watch the sunset with somebody.

. . .

It hurt. It hurt to see someone who could think of something so small, so simple, and consider it bucket list worthy. Everything about this was filled with love and thought. The paper wasn’t perfect. The handwriting was messy, some words darker than others—caused by too much pressure—and the crinkles, stains, and scratches all said that this could have been thrown away if it were anyone else who wrote this. But here it was. In your hands. Saved in a box of memories, something to look back on.

He lived his life. Grandpa sounded like someone who was happy with even the smallest of moments. Did he have any regrets? Was he surviving on the edge until he saved enough for someday? Did Grandpa go down a path that he never truly wanted…?

He always had something to say, with stories to tell. There were still quite a few unchecked items on this list, yet Grandpa looked satisfied even as he passed away. Could you do the same? If the world had ended, would it be true to say you lived life…?

As your throat clogged with unsaid questions and an aching heart, your mind asked questions only you could answer. The music box gradually reached its end, light dings that rang in your ears, comforting your sadness until you were ready.

When would you stop trying to survive?

Okay. Hold up. Recap! You snapped a photo of your wall with an old camera that sounded plastic-like and rattly every time you shook it and—somehow—you were now standing in front of the one and only Brooklyn Bridge?!

How on earth did you get here?! Oh, wait trick question, because no one here knows the goddamn answer to that!

Were you possessed for a moment? Possibly slept walked and flew all the way to New York City with a camera in hand… Make it make sense, you cried in your mind to no one in particular, desperately trying to understand the whole situation.

As you scanned your surroundings frantically—dropping the very innocent Canon in the process, as it rolled until it fell on its back—passersby were strolling along a path, few couples hand-in-hand, children running ahead of their parents, and a middle-aged gentleman reading amongst himself, flipping through the gossip-filled newspaper. A sign beside you that read “Brooklyn Heights Promenade” had said all that you needed to know as to where you were.

Despite your eyes having to skitter and dart to every new object within your vision; it, in fact, did not help ease anything and only added to your panic. The possibility of this being a dream had washed over you… However, that reasoning only lasted a second when the horrid sensation of wet socks seeped between your toes. The feeling prompted a quick look to the ground; your feet were soaked inside a shallow puddle. No dream could replicate the squishy discomfort of watery clothing. You quickly hopped out of the thin pool, failing miserably as you shook your feet dry—which rewarded you a glance or two from others.

Noticing the attention you were receiving, you zoomed to the nearest teenager, staring like a deer in headlights as you cried out, “where am I right now?” The startled citizen flinched to the far-out stare in this crazed-looking person and then peeped out the words New York City before fleeing away.

The realization slowly settled—you aimlessly stumbled back to the iron fence and shallow sheet of water—this was not a dream. You were in New York City, no doubt about it. And worst of all—in your pajamas. If there had been a warning, you would have at least tried to pick a better outfit.

Alright, no! That’s not even remotely important right now! Reminding yourself of the actual problem at hand.

Americans and tourists of all ages and generations continued to walk by as you quietly went through a total meltdown; though, something about this atmosphere ticked your brain. It was an effect that made you feel foreign, like you were the odd one out.

That strange hunch gradually became clear as your gaze glanced towards the middle aged man; he wore a gray suit set that paired with his checkered tie and a worn down fedora—that’s such a vintage style, you thought rather impressed with the elder bringing retro back—but it did not end there, leaving your eyes from the man to a group of young women who passed by giggling, most of them rocked a pair of flare jeans and leather boots; meanwhile their feathery blown out hairstyles spoke enough volumes as to when they were dressing…

Was there a festival going on nearby? You wondered if there had been another random American holiday you managed to forget about—maybe a ‘dress like the 80s day.’ “It feels like I just traveled to the past,” muttering your thoughts aloud as a man in hippie clothing passed you by. Jokingly making the thought that you jumped into a Back to the Future timeline, which was literal nonsense. Seemingly forgetting the fact that teleporting more than seven-hundred miles away from your home was not exactly normal either. It’s not like you had an obvious explanation for whatever happened, but no matter what, traveling into the past was beyond crazy.

You needed a change of position, turning to lean your elbows on the fence—it was time to wrap your head around how you’d get out of New York City. Your pockets were empty and to top it off you were only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, so by definition you had nothing to your name.

“God, how the hell did I get here?!” You constantly racked your brain for some sort of memory that could explain all this. Ruffling your uncombed damp hair like it had the answers underneath.

Just before all this, you were beside the bed holding a camera, then took a quick picture of your wall and poof! You arrived in NYC. There was that weird already-developed picture in the viewfinder, and it surprisingly had the exact same skyline as the one in front of you right now. As you looked towards the buildings glistening under the afternoon sun, your fingers began to tangle and tug around your hair as you tried to recall the cause of this predicament.

Despite the panic thumping in your throat, the view was breathtaking.

The glittering Manhattan skyline shone with pride as the Brooklyn Bridge arched out towards the city, and distinct car honking sounded in the distance. Not to mention the iconic buildings that could only belong to New York: the Empire State, the Chrysler building, and the Twin Towers rivaling them all—you thought to yourself before your mind blanked.

.

.

.

Every organ in your body felt like they had sunk six feet into the ground.

The Twin Towers?!

The very gone and destroyed Twin Towers! Your knees met the ground before your brain could even load. Life drained from your face as though you had quite literally seen a ghost. There was no way. No how! That the Twin Towers were standing before you like nothing happened! Everything froze at that point, your heart dropped under the pavement, blood ran cold, and goosebumps rose from every possible follicle in your skin.

It was scientifically impossible—actually, physically impossible for them to rebuild the towers within a day, let alone without masses of news channels reporting it on every outlet. As your mind melted against its skull and heart rammed a mile per second, your eyes shifted to different focal points, you needed something to ground you, to explain that this was all a stage built for a play or—or a film, anything! And then the gray suited man on the bench came to view. You scrambled on your feet to ask him the final lingering question.

“Hey, ‘scuse me—what’s today’s date?” Asking like there was a mouse caught in your throat, fear got hold of you, because whatever this stranger said next could alter your entire brain schema. The man peeked from under his hat, closing the newspaper to view the exact date on the New York Times header. “August 18th, a Thursday.” His matter-of-fact baritone voice clarified, which frankly did not make sense because today was a Tuesday “No, I mean—” taking it upon yourself to read the current year yourself. Leaning in to find:

New York, Thursday, August 18, 1977

You wanted to laugh, to scoff at the preposterousness that was time travel. Your mouth was left ajar as you walked away from the confused male, likely noting you as some runaway street-kid who woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and wearing inappropriate clothing in broad daylight.

To your dismay, no one could answer the million questions running in your mind. So many hows and whys that would remain unanswered, because not a soul in this world would believe you had time traveled back to the days of Jazz and face-to-face communication. No social media, zero cellphones, and not a single yoga pant in sight. It was 1977 and you were in denial.

Back to the same iron fence, you stared out to the city. Retracing your steps to find what may have caused this entire situation. Did you offhandedly wish to go back in time like those TV shows and a divine force granted it true?

No, no, no! That wasn’t it.

And like a moth to a flame, a glint attracted your attention. The old Canon left abandoned on the bricked pavement. It was the very camera that held a perfectly developed photo of the 80s—now discovered 1977—city view inside the eyepiece, despite it being unusual and practically impossible for a picture to be naturally burnt inside a camera lens.

Out of suspicion, the camera was not left neglected this time, picking it up from its cobbled spot near the iron fence. Adjusting the device in your hold before peeking through the finder like you previously done in the bedroom. Would you see the New York City view once again?

Like déjà vu, you saw your home, or more specifically the wall of your apartment and the dresser below. Should you laugh at how silly this all feels? Regardless of the overflowing emotions that ran past you all at once, your finger slipped to the trigger and the never-ending sounds of cars and breezy air ceased.

To your relief—gently removing the camera from your sight in anticipation—you were standing in the center of your room, everything was just as it had been before you left, and your very modern phone was resting on the bed covers. In a hurry, you ran to check the date, worried that you were sent too far in the future this time—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Your screen reading the date that you knew and now loved: August 18, Tuesday, 2026

A breath of sweet respite left your lungs, resting your head on your cool bedding like it had been far too long. You wanted to never part ways ever again.

As your heart and running mind began to calm slowly, it left more room to contemplate the strangeness you had just encountered; the black hued plastic of the camera filled your sight, like it teasingly knew of what it just put you through. Not a minute was wasted when you stood to put the device away. Storing it in the same corner of the box and closing it shut. Who knew what other sorcery objects were buried here, you certainly did not want to wait and find out.

There was a guilt ridden feeling in your gut that held you back from tossing the whole thing away, so you shoved it under the bed and pretended like it was all an elaborate dream. Your life was already in enough haywire; a teleporting camera thingamabob was not something you needed right now. Speaking of needing something; these socks have got to go—hopping on your feet to remove the dirty puddle socks. This didn’t happen and those socks got dirty from a combination of the dusty floors and your just-showered feet… Yep, keep convincing yourself with that.

It had been a week since that time traveling incident, and you were trying your absolute hardest to not even allow it to cross your mind. Were you successful? No, no, you were not. Everything about it had your heart kicking. There was a strange feeling radiating from that box, like it was calling out for someone… And in a way, it felt intimate, warmness meant only for you. But no matter how many times your mind tried to think about the box, you resisted with every nerve.

Not until a random day at work did you finally think to give it a chance.

August 25, once again, another Tuesday. The lovely sound of credit cards being charged on the machine and milk steamers buzzed in the air as coffee lovers and table-hoggers enjoyed their afternoon. Thank god you didn’t receive any of those ‘special order’ customers—they had a tendency of being extra technical with details—for every time you faced one of them, you were a couple iced coffees with twenty pumps of caramel away from a social meltdown.

The ambient piano covers played in the background speakers when another take-out latte had been completed, which allowed a certain Ella to slide into your bubble.

“So~ Camera illusions, huh?” She had mentioned this topic yet again, after you had passionately—delusionally in your friend’s eyes—explained that it sent you back to the 1970s. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then go back to your espressos.”

“I am not making fun of you! Just—what if you had a really bad dream or something? I mean, sent to New York in just socks and sweats? Sounds like a total fashion nightmare to me.”

You wanted to correct her, specify that it was 1977 New York, but what good would that do you—she doesn’t even believe the teleporting part. Honestly, it was hard for even you to understand… This wasn’t some random fluke that could have happened to anyone. You quite literally traveled back to the 20th century with the help of an old rattling camera.

No matter how many sleepless nights you had after constant nightmares of being sent to the witch hunting era, you could never consider it as just a crazy dream or hallucination. If it were a dream, then that was it and any more thinking would be a waste of brain space; but if you were truly sent to the past… Then—

“Maybe it was a dream,” Ella spoke up as she cleaned out the espresso portafilter, “but who’s to say it didn’t mean something?” You blinked at the girl beside you; an eyebrow rose that dared to ask what she was trying to say.

She hummed thoughtfully before continuing on, something that Ella did when she did not want to ramble out silly possibilities, your friend likely felt that you were more hung up on this incident than you let on. “You know I believe things happen for a reason, right? So, what if this was a sign for you to get out of your shell for once?” She slightly lowered her voice at the end. Before you could retaliate with the same word of ‘I’m happy with my life,’ Ella cut you off; “You and I both know you’re not happy with whatever you got going on right now! Don’t tell me you are actually excited to get a degree in the world of boring suits and bowties.” Also known as business administration in English.

“Take a gap year, who cares if you finish later, the job market literally cannot get any more dogshit than it is now. You need to enjoy your life, not speed-run through it like a hedgehog!” She rapped back without a breath and let her frustration by toweling the already dried utensils.

“Hedgehogs don’t speed though—” Attempting to update her information, but received a serious faced Ella instead, tight lipped and all, “I am trying to make a point!”

“Okay, okay! I hear you. I’ll do some ‘soul searching’ or whatever you call it.” Air quoting with a plastic cup and black marker in hand.

“Good.” And to that, the Ella Ted Talk™ has been concluded, leaving you with your own thoughts. Thankfully, the number of customers coming in for their midday cup of Joe would keep you busy from your head for now.

So… Here you were. With your apartment. And the box under your bed. You were fairly sure when Ella said take a gap year, she probably meant to go explore the world or however else people do it… Not trying to go to the past like a conspiracy theorist. You did not completely believe that the camera actually took you back there, but it was the only logical explanation—wait, no! What logical?! Nothing about this was logical! Oh god, now it was messing with your brain.

You paced around your flat for what was five long minutes, which felt like an hour of creaking on the wooden flooring and the strands of your sock getting snatched in the unpolished planks. If… If there was even a 1% chance of that ‘hallucination’ being real—and you actually time traveled, then you would just need to check for yourself… Right?

Sure, the week before that box showed up you were under so much stress, exams were crawling up your shoulders, textbooks were replacing the boogieman in your nightmares, and countless all-nighters were taking up your sleep schedule. So, it wouldn’t be strange that you started imagining the craziest scenarios, like being sent to the days before your parents met—were they even born yet?!

God, you were thinking far too much; it was about time you just ripped the band-aid off. Pulling out the cardboard box from its prison under your bed, swiftly swiping off a week’s worth of dust from the top before opening it up. Revealing the treasures you so hoped to ignore… And was that photo always there—?

The moment you opened up the box flaps, a familiar photo sat atop everything else, like it was purposely waiting for your attention. A perfectly developed picture of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from the Promenade—the same exact image you saw in the viewfinder, meaning the same one that you were sent to in the 1970s. Yeah, totally not terrifying at all… Chills ran down your spine, alarms blared in your mind screaming, that was not there before! Your reflexes kicked the box back under the bed—nope, not doing this today!

“Just take me! That’s it, I know you’re in here, you weird ass boogeyman,” yelling it for the neighbors to hear at this point, “just kill me already! C’mon, quick and painful!” Darting your sight to random corners of your fairly small flat, checking under the bed for some big bad burglar who’s playing a prank on you.

Sadly, to say the least, there was no robber, thief, or gigantic spider coming to reap your soul. How unfortunate… Falling on your back, the fluffy rug below, and staring out to the ceiling. A breath of what one would assume was frustration, maybe confusion, slipped past your lips. Your mind felt like it was racing with questions and possibilities, yet none at all. Thoughts moved far too fast for you to catch them, only making your head overheat from brain abuse caused by that stupid box.

Each inhale expanding your lungs was counting the seconds passing, and every exhale was a reminder of how you had nothing to lose. To your side, you saw the kicked box under the bed, sitting as if it could wait forever. Would it though?

Before your head got all panicky again, you sat up to pull in the box. No time like the present. Still somewhat opened, except with a new folded dent to the outer flap, caused by a certain someone’s quick swift kick. There it was, that photo. The reason for your hysterical week.

From your view, everything was mixed, jumbled, and stacked on top one another. Old captured memories, couple loose ticket stubs stuck between the box and a wooden chest, a curled up newspaper, and many other items that have tested the length of time. Including that camera…

First things first, there was no way you could search this entire pile while it was still a mess. You rolled up your sleeves and mentally cheered yourself on. Turning on a quick song to organize to while time passes by.

...queue background music...

Your shoulders danced as Maxine sang in her soulful melodies, mouthing with the lyrics as you laid each item in groups on your bed. Photos among photos, little trinkets clustered in another corner, papers and newspapers stacked to the side, concert ticket stubs, postcards, a folded paper of pressed flowers, and so many more physical memories in small bits and pieces were given a spot on your duvet.

Love is good, love can be strong! Maxine truthfully sang as you lifted the mini chest from the box and put it on your nightstand, the bed was already covered in groups of memorabilia, it would get too cluttered to add the chest as well. Floral designs were carved into the dark fruity colored wood, and a painted vine of roses greeted you from the top of the lid; caressing this little box that pressed on through time, your finger grazed upon a stuck out metal key. Reeling in your attention, a golden plated hand-crank chilled from a lack of warm touch. You lifted the wooden lid up, finding a glass protecting the musical mechanics of the instrument, meanwhile old dirtied coins and cut-out newspaper articles sat atop the glass. It was a music box, you realized, and cranked the handle to check if it still works. The R&B tunes phased out in the background, your breath held in as you expected a melodious ding.

…queue music box playing over…

And by god it did, magical twinkles and chimes danced around your apartment space. A single note took you back years. A single note surrounded you of memories as grandmother twirled in the kitchen, humming a tune you only knew as hers. Clanks of pots and pans accompanying her melodies, grandfather watching in admiration, a time when you could only be so carefree, so happy, and unaware of anything that was to come.

Hands hovered and stalled around the box, not sure if you wanted it to continue playing. Or to make it stop reminding you of a moment that would never return. How many times have you seen your grandma smile, even when you were a tiring brat, after she choked out an ugly cough, or during the times she waved to you goodbye when you had to leave. “It would be a waste of my life if I spent it unhappy, now wouldn’t it?” Gran had answered you once, asking why she always smiled no matter rain or shine. Had it been you who dealt with your own antics, all the days would be filled with groans and frowns. “The world’s a better place for everyone when you smile,” she added with a calmness over her eyes, holding you close as you hummed to her answer.

Those memories faded away, notes bridging over to another section of the song. Your eyes got lost in the box, fiddling with the souvenir coins grandmother stored and then looking over the torn out articles, it was announcing the opening of museums, gardens, and a new amusement park for couples and families to enjoy. She always loved fun lively venues…

Your eyes caught sight of a beige neglected sheet in the box. The musical box had completely taken over your attention, that the last item at the bottom was almost forgotten. A single paper adorned with folds, dents, and crinkles around the corner, some specs of dirt here and there, along with a big penciled header ‘Bucket List’ in a messy cursive style.

Following the title came a sentence that echoed like you had heard it a million times.

Life’s too short to keep saving for someday.

Something you’ve heard your grandfather say every time you postponed or procrastinated things you kept for later. That man had a way with words, especially for a ten year-old who did not yet understand how philosophical life could be.

A list of activities and plans filled the rest of the sheet. Some were shown complete with a checkmark, while others were left empty. Many were so ordinary, so domestic.

. . .

Learn somebody’s stories. ✓

Watch Manhattan wake up. ✓

Get lost on purpose.

Find a place that feels like home.

Go to a drive-in movie. ✓

Have one unforgettable day without my camera.

Eat ice-cream for dinner. ✓

Fly a kite. ✓

Visit every record store I can find. ✓

Be there for the people I love.

Write a letter I’ll never send.

. . .

The list continued for a few more entries, margins filled with rewritten ideas, while others were crossed out, as if whoever wrote this had far too many dreams and aspirations for life. Unsure of what to put down first. Likely in a hurry to write as well, coffee and an orangy stain colored the edges of the paper. And pen swirls in the top-most corner, something your grandfather did to test a pen’s ink.

. . .

Cook pancakes without setting off fire alarms.

Beat the old man at dancing ← He got moves!

Visit the Statue of Liberty.

Watch the sunset with somebody.

. . .

It hurt. It hurt to see someone who could think of something so small, so simple, and consider it bucket list worthy. Everything about this was filled with love and thought. The paper wasn’t perfect. The handwriting was messy, some words darker than others—caused by too much pressure—and the crinkles, stains, and scratches all said that this could have been thrown away if it were anyone else who wrote this. But here it was. In your hands. Saved in a box of memories, something to look back on.

He lived his life. Grandpa sounded like someone who was happy with even the smallest of moments. Did he have any regrets? Was he surviving on the edge until he saved enough for someday? Did Grandpa go down a path that he never truly wanted…?

He always had something to say, with stories to tell. There were still quite a few unchecked items on this list, yet Grandpa looked satisfied even as he passed away. Could you do the same? If the world had ended, would it be true to say you lived life…?

As your throat clogged with unsaid questions and an aching heart, your mind asked questions only you could answer. The music box gradually reached its end, light dings that rang in your ears, comforting your sadness until you were ready.

When would you stop trying to survive?

Okay. Hold up. Recap! You snapped a photo of your wall with an old camera that sounded plastic-like and rattly every time you shook it and—somehow—you were now standing in front of the one and only Brooklyn Bridge?!

How on earth did you get here?! Oh, wait trick question, because no one here knows the goddamn answer to that!

Were you possessed for a moment? Possibly slept walked and flew all the way to New York City with a camera in hand… Make it make sense, you cried in your mind to no one in particular, desperately trying to understand the whole situation.

As you scanned your surroundings frantically—dropping the very innocent Canon in the process, as it rolled until it fell on its back—passersby were strolling along a path, few couples hand-in-hand, children running ahead of their parents, and a middle-aged gentleman reading amongst himself, flipping through the gossip-filled newspaper. A sign beside you that read “Brooklyn Heights Promenade” had said all that you needed to know as to where you were.

Despite your eyes having to skitter and dart to every new object within your vision; it, in fact, did not help ease anything and only added to your panic. The possibility of this being a dream had washed over you… However, that reasoning only lasted a second when the horrid sensation of wet socks seeped between your toes. The feeling prompted a quick look to the ground; your feet were soaked inside a shallow puddle. No dream could replicate the squishy discomfort of watery clothing. You quickly hopped out of the thin pool, failing miserably as you shook your feet dry—which rewarded you a glance or two from others.

Noticing the attention you were receiving, you zoomed to the nearest teenager, staring like a deer in headlights as you cried out, “where am I right now?” The startled citizen flinched to the far-out stare in this crazed-looking person and then peeped out the words New York City before fleeing away.

The realization slowly settled—you aimlessly stumbled back to the iron fence and shallow sheet of water—this was not a dream. You were in New York City, no doubt about it. And worst of all—in your pajamas. If there had been a warning, you would have at least tried to pick a better outfit.

Alright, no! That’s not even remotely important right now! Reminding yourself of the actual problem at hand.

Americans and tourists of all ages and generations continued to walk by as you quietly went through a total meltdown; though, something about this atmosphere ticked your brain. It was an effect that made you feel foreign, like you were the odd one out.

That strange hunch gradually became clear as your gaze glanced towards the middle aged man; he wore a gray suit set that paired with his checkered tie and a worn down fedora—that’s such a vintage style, you thought rather impressed with the elder bringing retro back—but it did not end there, leaving your eyes from the man to a group of young women who passed by giggling, most of them rocked a pair of flare jeans and leather boots; meanwhile their feathery blown out hairstyles spoke enough volumes as to when they were dressing…

Was there a festival going on nearby? You wondered if there had been another random American holiday you managed to forget about—maybe a ‘dress like the 80s day.’ “It feels like I just traveled to the past,” muttering your thoughts aloud as a man in hippie clothing passed you by. Jokingly making the thought that you jumped into a Back to the Future timeline, which was literal nonsense. Seemingly forgetting the fact that teleporting more than seven-hundred miles away from your home was not exactly normal either. It’s not like you had an obvious explanation for whatever happened, but no matter what, traveling into the past was beyond crazy.

You needed a change of position, turning to lean your elbows on the fence—it was time to wrap your head around how you’d get out of New York City. Your pockets were empty and to top it off you were only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, so by definition you had nothing to your name.

“God, how the hell did I get here?!” You constantly racked your brain for some sort of memory that could explain all this. Ruffling your uncombed damp hair like it had the answers underneath.

Just before all this, you were beside the bed holding a camera, then took a quick picture of your wall and poof! You arrived in NYC. There was that weird already-developed picture in the viewfinder, and it surprisingly had the exact same skyline as the one in front of you right now. As you looked towards the buildings glistening under the afternoon sun, your fingers began to tangle and tug around your hair as you tried to recall the cause of this predicament.

Despite the panic thumping in your throat, the view was breathtaking.

The glittering Manhattan skyline shone with pride as the Brooklyn Bridge arched out towards the city, and distinct car honking sounded in the distance. Not to mention the iconic buildings that could only belong to New York: the Empire State, the Chrysler building, and the Twin Towers rivaling them all—you thought to yourself before your mind blanked.

.

.

.

Every organ in your body felt like they had sunk six feet into the ground.

The Twin Towers?!

The very gone and destroyed Twin Towers! Your knees met the ground before your brain could even load. Life drained from your face as though you had quite literally seen a ghost. There was no way. No how! That the Twin Towers were standing before you like nothing happened! Everything froze at that point, your heart dropped under the pavement, blood ran cold, and goosebumps rose from every possible follicle in your skin.

It was scientifically impossible—actually, physically impossible for them to rebuild the towers within a day, let alone without masses of news channels reporting it on every outlet. As your mind melted against its skull and heart rammed a mile per second, your eyes shifted to different focal points, you needed something to ground you, to explain that this was all a stage built for a play or—or a film, anything! And then the gray suited man on the bench came to view. You scrambled on your feet to ask him the final lingering question.

“Hey, ‘scuse me—what’s today’s date?” Asking like there was a mouse caught in your throat, fear got hold of you, because whatever this stranger said next could alter your entire brain schema. The man peeked from under his hat, closing the newspaper to view the exact date on the New York Times header. “August 18th, a Thursday.” His matter-of-fact baritone voice clarified, which frankly did not make sense because today was a Tuesday “No, I mean—” taking it upon yourself to read the current year yourself. Leaning in to find:

New York, Thursday, August 18, 1977

You wanted to laugh, to scoff at the preposterousness that was time travel. Your mouth was left ajar as you walked away from the confused male, likely noting you as some runaway street-kid who woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and wearing inappropriate clothing in broad daylight.

To your dismay, no one could answer the million questions running in your mind. So many hows and whys that would remain unanswered, because not a soul in this world would believe you had time traveled back to the days of Jazz and face-to-face communication. No social media, zero cellphones, and not a single yoga pant in sight. It was 1977 and you were in denial.

Back to the same iron fence, you stared out to the city. Retracing your steps to find what may have caused this entire situation. Did you offhandedly wish to go back in time like those TV shows and a divine force granted it true?

No, no, no! That wasn’t it.

And like a moth to a flame, a glint attracted your attention. The old Canon left abandoned on the bricked pavement. It was the very camera that held a perfectly developed photo of the 80s—now discovered 1977—city view inside the eyepiece, despite it being unusual and practically impossible for a picture to be naturally burnt inside a camera lens.

Out of suspicion, the camera was not left neglected this time, picking it up from its cobbled spot near the iron fence. Adjusting the device in your hold before peeking through the finder like you previously done in the bedroom. Would you see the New York City view once again?

Like déjà vu, you saw your home, or more specifically the wall of your apartment and the dresser below. Should you laugh at how silly this all feels? Regardless of the overflowing emotions that ran past you all at once, your finger slipped to the trigger and the never-ending sounds of cars and breezy air ceased.

To your relief—gently removing the camera from your sight in anticipation—you were standing in the center of your room, everything was just as it had been before you left, and your very modern phone was resting on the bed covers. In a hurry, you ran to check the date, worried that you were sent too far in the future this time—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Your screen reading the date that you knew and now loved: August 18, Tuesday, 2026

A breath of sweet respite left your lungs, resting your head on your cool bedding like it had been far too long. You wanted to never part ways ever again.

As your heart and running mind began to calm slowly, it left more room to contemplate the strangeness you had just encountered; the black hued plastic of the camera filled your sight, like it teasingly knew of what it just put you through. Not a minute was wasted when you stood to put the device away. Storing it in the same corner of the box and closing it shut. Who knew what other sorcery objects were buried here, you certainly did not want to wait and find out.

There was a guilt ridden feeling in your gut that held you back from tossing the whole thing away, so you shoved it under the bed and pretended like it was all an elaborate dream. Your life was already in enough haywire; a teleporting camera thingamabob was not something you needed right now. Speaking of needing something; these socks have got to go—hopping on your feet to remove the dirty puddle socks. This didn’t happen and those socks got dirty from a combination of the dusty floors and your just-showered feet… Yep, keep convincing yourself with that.

It had been a week since that time traveling incident, and you were trying your absolute hardest to not even allow it to cross your mind. Were you successful? No, no, you were not. Everything about it had your heart kicking. There was a strange feeling radiating from that box, like it was calling out for someone… And in a way, it felt intimate, warmness meant only for you. But no matter how many times your mind tried to think about the box, you resisted with every nerve.

Not until a random day at work did you finally think to give it a chance.

August 25, once again, another Tuesday. The lovely sound of credit cards being charged on the machine and milk steamers buzzed in the air as coffee lovers and table-hoggers enjoyed their afternoon. Thank god you didn’t receive any of those ‘special order’ customers—they had a tendency of being extra technical with details—for every time you faced one of them, you were a couple iced coffees with twenty pumps of caramel away from a social meltdown.

The ambient piano covers played in the background speakers when another take-out latte had been completed, which allowed a certain Ella to slide into your bubble.

“So~ Camera illusions, huh?” She had mentioned this topic yet again, after you had passionately—delusionally in your friend’s eyes—explained that it sent you back to the 1970s. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then go back to your espressos.”

“I am not making fun of you! Just—what if you had a really bad dream or something? I mean, sent to New York in just socks and sweats? Sounds like a total fashion nightmare to me.”

You wanted to correct her, specify that it was 1977 New York, but what good would that do you—she doesn’t even believe the teleporting part. Honestly, it was hard for even you to understand… This wasn’t some random fluke that could have happened to anyone. You quite literally traveled back to the 20th century with the help of an old rattling camera.

No matter how many sleepless nights you had after constant nightmares of being sent to the witch hunting era, you could never consider it as just a crazy dream or hallucination. If it were a dream, then that was it and any more thinking would be a waste of brain space; but if you were truly sent to the past… Then—

“Maybe it was a dream,” Ella spoke up as she cleaned out the espresso portafilter, “but who’s to say it didn’t mean something?” You blinked at the girl beside you; an eyebrow rose that dared to ask what she was trying to say.

She hummed thoughtfully before continuing on, something that Ella did when she did not want to ramble out silly possibilities, your friend likely felt that you were more hung up on this incident than you let on. “You know I believe things happen for a reason, right? So, what if this was a sign for you to get out of your shell for once?” She slightly lowered her voice at the end. Before you could retaliate with the same word of ‘I’m happy with my life,’ Ella cut you off; “You and I both know you’re not happy with whatever you got going on right now! Don’t tell me you are actually excited to get a degree in the world of boring suits and bowties.” Also known as business administration in English.

“Take a gap year, who cares if you finish later, the job market literally cannot get any more dogshit than it is now. You need to enjoy your life, not speed-run through it like a hedgehog!” She rapped back without a breath and let her frustration by toweling the already dried utensils.

“Hedgehogs don’t speed though—” Attempting to update her information, but received a serious faced Ella instead, tight lipped and all, “I am trying to make a point!”

“Okay, okay! I hear you. I’ll do some ‘soul searching’ or whatever you call it.” Air quoting with a plastic cup and black marker in hand.

“Good.” And to that, the Ella Ted Talk™ has been concluded, leaving you with your own thoughts. Thankfully, the number of customers coming in for their midday cup of Joe would keep you busy from your head for now.

So… Here you were. With your apartment. And the box under your bed. You were fairly sure when Ella said take a gap year, she probably meant to go explore the world or however else people do it… Not trying to go to the past like a conspiracy theorist. You did not completely believe that the camera actually took you back there, but it was the only logical explanation—wait, no! What logical?! Nothing about this was logical! Oh god, now it was messing with your brain.

You paced around your flat for what was five long minutes, which felt like an hour of creaking on the wooden flooring and the strands of your sock getting snatched in the unpolished planks. If… If there was even a 1% chance of that ‘hallucination’ being real—and you actually time traveled, then you would just need to check for yourself… Right?

Sure, the week before that box showed up you were under so much stress, exams were crawling up your shoulders, textbooks were replacing the boogieman in your nightmares, and countless all-nighters were taking up your sleep schedule. So, it wouldn’t be strange that you started imagining the craziest scenarios, like being sent to the days before your parents met—were they even born yet?!

God, you were thinking far too much; it was about time you just ripped the band-aid off. Pulling out the cardboard box from its prison under your bed, swiftly swiping off a week’s worth of dust from the top before opening it up. Revealing the treasures you so hoped to ignore… And was that photo always there—?

The moment you opened up the box flaps, a familiar photo sat atop everything else, like it was purposely waiting for your attention. A perfectly developed picture of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from the Promenade—the same exact image you saw in the viewfinder, meaning the same one that you were sent to in the 1970s. Yeah, totally not terrifying at all… Chills ran down your spine, alarms blared in your mind screaming, that was not there before! Your reflexes kicked the box back under the bed—nope, not doing this today!

“Just take me! That’s it, I know you’re in here, you weird ass boogeyman,” yelling it for the neighbors to hear at this point, “just kill me already! C’mon, quick and painful!” Darting your sight to random corners of your fairly small flat, checking under the bed for some big bad burglar who’s playing a prank on you.

Sadly, to say the least, there was no robber, thief, or gigantic spider coming to reap your soul. How unfortunate… Falling on your back, the fluffy rug below, and staring out to the ceiling. A breath of what one would assume was frustration, maybe confusion, slipped past your lips. Your mind felt like it was racing with questions and possibilities, yet none at all. Thoughts moved far too fast for you to catch them, only making your head overheat from brain abuse caused by that stupid box.

Each inhale expanding your lungs was counting the seconds passing, and every exhale was a reminder of how you had nothing to lose. To your side, you saw the kicked box under the bed, sitting as if it could wait forever. Would it though?

Before your head got all panicky again, you sat up to pull in the box. No time like the present. Still somewhat opened, except with a new folded dent to the outer flap, caused by a certain someone’s quick swift kick. There it was, that photo. The reason for your hysterical week.

From your view, everything was mixed, jumbled, and stacked on top one another. Old captured memories, couple loose ticket stubs stuck between the box and a wooden chest, a curled up newspaper, and many other items that have tested the length of time. Including that camera…

First things first, there was no way you could search this entire pile while it was still a mess. You rolled up your sleeves and mentally cheered yourself on. Turning on a quick song to organize to while time passes by.

...queue background music...

Your shoulders danced as Maxine sang in her soulful melodies, mouthing with the lyrics as you laid each item in groups on your bed. Photos among photos, little trinkets clustered in another corner, papers and newspapers stacked to the side, concert ticket stubs, postcards, a folded paper of pressed flowers, and so many more physical memories in small bits and pieces were given a spot on your duvet.

Love is good, love can be strong! Maxine truthfully sang as you lifted the mini chest from the box and put it on your nightstand, the bed was already covered in groups of memorabilia, it would get too cluttered to add the chest as well. Floral designs were carved into the dark fruity colored wood, and a painted vine of roses greeted you from the top of the lid; caressing this little box that pressed on through time, your finger grazed upon a stuck out metal key. Reeling in your attention, a golden plated hand-crank chilled from a lack of warm touch. You lifted the wooden lid up, finding a glass protecting the musical mechanics of the instrument, meanwhile old dirtied coins and cut-out newspaper articles sat atop the glass. It was a music box, you realized, and cranked the handle to check if it still works. The R&B tunes phased out in the background, your breath held in as you expected a melodious ding.

…queue music box playing over…

And by god it did, magical twinkles and chimes danced around your apartment space. A single note took you back years. A single note surrounded you of memories as grandmother twirled in the kitchen, humming a tune you only knew as hers. Clanks of pots and pans accompanying her melodies, grandfather watching in admiration, a time when you could only be so carefree, so happy, and unaware of anything that was to come.

Hands hovered and stalled around the box, not sure if you wanted it to continue playing. Or to make it stop reminding you of a moment that would never return. How many times have you seen your grandma smile, even when you were a tiring brat, after she choked out an ugly cough, or during the times she waved to you goodbye when you had to leave. “It would be a waste of my life if I spent it unhappy, now wouldn’t it?” Gran had answered you once, asking why she always smiled no matter rain or shine. Had it been you who dealt with your own antics, all the days would be filled with groans and frowns. “The world’s a better place for everyone when you smile,” she added with a calmness over her eyes, holding you close as you hummed to her answer.

Those memories faded away, notes bridging over to another section of the song. Your eyes got lost in the box, fiddling with the souvenir coins grandmother stored and then looking over the torn out articles, it was announcing the opening of museums, gardens, and a new amusement park for couples and families to enjoy. She always loved fun lively venues…

Your eyes caught sight of a beige neglected sheet in the box. The musical box had completely taken over your attention, that the last item at the bottom was almost forgotten. A single paper adorned with folds, dents, and crinkles around the corner, some specs of dirt here and there, along with a big penciled header ‘Bucket List’ in a messy cursive style.

Following the title came a sentence that echoed like you had heard it a million times.

Life’s too short to keep saving for someday.

Something you’ve heard your grandfather say every time you postponed or procrastinated things you kept for later. That man had a way with words, especially for a ten year-old who did not yet understand how philosophical life could be.

A list of activities and plans filled the rest of the sheet. Some were shown complete with a checkmark, while others were left empty. Many were so ordinary, so domestic.

. . .

Learn somebody’s stories. ✓

Watch Manhattan wake up. ✓

Get lost on purpose.

Find a place that feels like home.

Go to a drive-in movie. ✓

Have one unforgettable day without my camera.

Eat ice-cream for dinner. ✓

Fly a kite. ✓

Visit every record store I can find. ✓

Be there for the people I love.

Write a letter I’ll never send.

. . .

The list continued for a few more entries, margins filled with rewritten ideas, while others were crossed out, as if whoever wrote this had far too many dreams and aspirations for life. Unsure of what to put down first. Likely in a hurry to write as well, coffee and an orangy stain colored the edges of the paper. And pen swirls in the top-most corner, something your grandfather did to test a pen’s ink.

. . .

Cook pancakes without setting off fire alarms.

Beat the old man at dancing ← He got moves!

Visit the Statue of Liberty.

Watch the sunset with somebody.

. . .

It hurt. It hurt to see someone who could think of something so small, so simple, and consider it bucket list worthy. Everything about this was filled with love and thought. The paper wasn’t perfect. The handwriting was messy, some words darker than others—caused by too much pressure—and the crinkles, stains, and scratches all said that this could have been thrown away if it were anyone else who wrote this. But here it was. In your hands. Saved in a box of memories, something to look back on.

He lived his life. Grandpa sounded like someone who was happy with even the smallest of moments. Did he have any regrets? Was he surviving on the edge until he saved enough for someday? Did Grandpa go down a path that he never truly wanted…?

He always had something to say, with stories to tell. There were still quite a few unchecked items on this list, yet Grandpa looked satisfied even as he passed away. Could you do the same? If the world had ended, would it be true to say you lived life…?

As your throat clogged with unsaid questions and an aching heart, your mind asked questions only you could answer. The music box gradually reached its end, light dings that rang in your ears, comforting your sadness until you were ready.

When would you stop trying to survive?

Okay. Hold up. Recap! You snapped a photo of your wall with an old camera that sounded plastic-like and rattly every time you shook it and—somehow—you were now standing in front of the one and only Brooklyn Bridge?!

How on earth did you get here?! Oh, wait trick question, because no one here knows the goddamn answer to that!

Were you possessed for a moment? Possibly slept walked and flew all the way to New York City with a camera in hand… Make it make sense, you cried in your mind to no one in particular, desperately trying to understand the whole situation.

As you scanned your surroundings frantically—dropping the very innocent Canon in the process, as it rolled until it fell on its back—passersby were strolling along a path, few couples hand-in-hand, children running ahead of their parents, and a middle-aged gentleman reading amongst himself, flipping through the gossip-filled newspaper. A sign beside you that read “Brooklyn Heights Promenade” had said all that you needed to know as to where you were.

Despite your eyes having to skitter and dart to every new object within your vision; it, in fact, did not help ease anything and only added to your panic. The possibility of this being a dream had washed over you… However, that reasoning only lasted a second when the horrid sensation of wet socks seeped between your toes. The feeling prompted a quick look to the ground; your feet were soaked inside a shallow puddle. No dream could replicate the squishy discomfort of watery clothing. You quickly hopped out of the thin pool, failing miserably as you shook your feet dry—which rewarded you a glance or two from others.

Noticing the attention you were receiving, you zoomed to the nearest teenager, staring like a deer in headlights as you cried out, “where am I right now?” The startled citizen flinched to the far-out stare in this crazed-looking person and then peeped out the words New York City before fleeing away.

The realization slowly settled—you aimlessly stumbled back to the iron fence and shallow sheet of water—this was not a dream. You were in New York City, no doubt about it. And worst of all—in your pajamas. If there had been a warning, you would have at least tried to pick a better outfit.

Alright, no! That’s not even remotely important right now! Reminding yourself of the actual problem at hand.

Americans and tourists of all ages and generations continued to walk by as you quietly went through a total meltdown; though, something about this atmosphere ticked your brain. It was an effect that made you feel foreign, like you were the odd one out.

That strange hunch gradually became clear as your gaze glanced towards the middle aged man; he wore a gray suit set that paired with his checkered tie and a worn down fedora—that’s such a vintage style, you thought rather impressed with the elder bringing retro back—but it did not end there, leaving your eyes from the man to a group of young women who passed by giggling, most of them rocked a pair of flare jeans and leather boots; meanwhile their feathery blown out hairstyles spoke enough volumes as to when they were dressing…

Was there a festival going on nearby? You wondered if there had been another random American holiday you managed to forget about—maybe a ‘dress like the 80s day.’ “It feels like I just traveled to the past,” muttering your thoughts aloud as a man in hippie clothing passed you by. Jokingly making the thought that you jumped into a Back to the Future timeline, which was literal nonsense. Seemingly forgetting the fact that teleporting more than seven-hundred miles away from your home was not exactly normal either. It’s not like you had an obvious explanation for whatever happened, but no matter what, traveling into the past was beyond crazy.

You needed a change of position, turning to lean your elbows on the fence—it was time to wrap your head around how you’d get out of New York City. Your pockets were empty and to top it off you were only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, so by definition you had nothing to your name.

“God, how the hell did I get here?!” You constantly racked your brain for some sort of memory that could explain all this. Ruffling your uncombed damp hair like it had the answers underneath.

Just before all this, you were beside the bed holding a camera, then took a quick picture of your wall and poof! You arrived in NYC. There was that weird already-developed picture in the viewfinder, and it surprisingly had the exact same skyline as the one in front of you right now. As you looked towards the buildings glistening under the afternoon sun, your fingers began to tangle and tug around your hair as you tried to recall the cause of this predicament.

Despite the panic thumping in your throat, the view was breathtaking.

The glittering Manhattan skyline shone with pride as the Brooklyn Bridge arched out towards the city, and distinct car honking sounded in the distance. Not to mention the iconic buildings that could only belong to New York: the Empire State, the Chrysler building, and the Twin Towers rivaling them all—you thought to yourself before your mind blanked.

.

.

.

Every organ in your body felt like they had sunk six feet into the ground.

The Twin Towers?!

The very gone and destroyed Twin Towers! Your knees met the ground before your brain could even load. Life drained from your face as though you had quite literally seen a ghost. There was no way. No how! That the Twin Towers were standing before you like nothing happened! Everything froze at that point, your heart dropped under the pavement, blood ran cold, and goosebumps rose from every possible follicle in your skin.

It was scientifically impossible—actually, physically impossible for them to rebuild the towers within a day, let alone without masses of news channels reporting it on every outlet. As your mind melted against its skull and heart rammed a mile per second, your eyes shifted to different focal points, you needed something to ground you, to explain that this was all a stage built for a play or—or a film, anything! And then the gray suited man on the bench came to view. You scrambled on your feet to ask him the final lingering question.

“Hey, ‘scuse me—what’s today’s date?” Asking like there was a mouse caught in your throat, fear got hold of you, because whatever this stranger said next could alter your entire brain schema. The man peeked from under his hat, closing the newspaper to view the exact date on the New York Times header. “August 18th, a Thursday.” His matter-of-fact baritone voice clarified, which frankly did not make sense because today was a Tuesday “No, I mean—” taking it upon yourself to read the current year yourself. Leaning in to find:

New York, Thursday, August 18, 1977

You wanted to laugh, to scoff at the preposterousness that was time travel. Your mouth was left ajar as you walked away from the confused male, likely noting you as some runaway street-kid who woke up on the wrong side of the bed—and wearing inappropriate clothing in broad daylight.

To your dismay, no one could answer the million questions running in your mind. So many hows and whys that would remain unanswered, because not a soul in this world would believe you had time traveled back to the days of Jazz and face-to-face communication. No social media, zero cellphones, and not a single yoga pant in sight. It was 1977 and you were in denial.

Back to the same iron fence, you stared out to the city. Retracing your steps to find what may have caused this entire situation. Did you offhandedly wish to go back in time like those TV shows and a divine force granted it true?

No, no, no! That wasn’t it.

And like a moth to a flame, a glint attracted your attention. The old Canon left abandoned on the bricked pavement. It was the very camera that held a perfectly developed photo of the 80s—now discovered 1977—city view inside the eyepiece, despite it being unusual and practically impossible for a picture to be naturally burnt inside a camera lens.

Out of suspicion, the camera was not left neglected this time, picking it up from its cobbled spot near the iron fence. Adjusting the device in your hold before peeking through the finder like you previously done in the bedroom. Would you see the New York City view once again?

Like déjà vu, you saw your home, or more specifically the wall of your apartment and the dresser below. Should you laugh at how silly this all feels? Regardless of the overflowing emotions that ran past you all at once, your finger slipped to the trigger and the never-ending sounds of cars and breezy air ceased.

To your relief—gently removing the camera from your sight in anticipation—you were standing in the center of your room, everything was just as it had been before you left, and your very modern phone was resting on the bed covers. In a hurry, you ran to check the date, worried that you were sent too far in the future this time—but thankfully that wasn’t the case. Your screen reading the date that you knew and now loved: August 18, Tuesday, 2026

A breath of sweet respite left your lungs, resting your head on your cool bedding like it had been far too long. You wanted to never part ways ever again.

As your heart and running mind began to calm slowly, it left more room to contemplate the strangeness you had just encountered; the black hued plastic of the camera filled your sight, like it teasingly knew of what it just put you through. Not a minute was wasted when you stood to put the device away. Storing it in the same corner of the box and closing it shut. Who knew what other sorcery objects were buried here, you certainly did not want to wait and find out.

There was a guilt ridden feeling in your gut that held you back from tossing the whole thing away, so you shoved it under the bed and pretended like it was all an elaborate dream. Your life was already in enough haywire; a teleporting camera thingamabob was not something you needed right now. Speaking of needing something; these socks have got to go—hopping on your feet to remove the dirty puddle socks. This didn’t happen and those socks got dirty from a combination of the dusty floors and your just-showered feet… Yep, keep convincing yourself with that.

It had been a week since that time traveling incident, and you were trying your absolute hardest to not even allow it to cross your mind. Were you successful? No, no, you were not. Everything about it had your heart kicking. There was a strange feeling radiating from that box, like it was calling out for someone… And in a way, it felt intimate, warmness meant only for you. But no matter how many times your mind tried to think about the box, you resisted with every nerve.

Not until a random day at work did you finally think to give it a chance.

August 25, once again, another Tuesday. The lovely sound of credit cards being charged on the machine and milk steamers buzzed in the air as coffee lovers and table-hoggers enjoyed their afternoon. Thank god you didn’t receive any of those ‘special order’ customers—they had a tendency of being extra technical with details—for every time you faced one of them, you were a couple iced coffees with twenty pumps of caramel away from a social meltdown.

The ambient piano covers played in the background speakers when another take-out latte had been completed, which allowed a certain Ella to slide into your bubble.

“So~ Camera illusions, huh?” She had mentioned this topic yet again, after you had passionately—delusionally in your friend’s eyes—explained that it sent you back to the 1970s. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then go back to your espressos.”

“I am not making fun of you! Just—what if you had a really bad dream or something? I mean, sent to New York in just socks and sweats? Sounds like a total fashion nightmare to me.”

You wanted to correct her, specify that it was 1977 New York, but what good would that do you—she doesn’t even believe the teleporting part. Honestly, it was hard for even you to understand… This wasn’t some random fluke that could have happened to anyone. You quite literally traveled back to the 20th century with the help of an old rattling camera.

No matter how many sleepless nights you had after constant nightmares of being sent to the witch hunting era, you could never consider it as just a crazy dream or hallucination. If it were a dream, then that was it and any more thinking would be a waste of brain space; but if you were truly sent to the past… Then—

“Maybe it was a dream,” Ella spoke up as she cleaned out the espresso portafilter, “but who’s to say it didn’t mean something?” You blinked at the girl beside you; an eyebrow rose that dared to ask what she was trying to say.

She hummed thoughtfully before continuing on, something that Ella did when she did not want to ramble out silly possibilities, your friend likely felt that you were more hung up on this incident than you let on. “You know I believe things happen for a reason, right? So, what if this was a sign for you to get out of your shell for once?” She slightly lowered her voice at the end. Before you could retaliate with the same word of ‘I’m happy with my life,’ Ella cut you off; “You and I both know you’re not happy with whatever you got going on right now! Don’t tell me you are actually excited to get a degree in the world of boring suits and bowties.” Also known as business administration in English.

“Take a gap year, who cares if you finish later, the job market literally cannot get any more dogshit than it is now. You need to enjoy your life, not speed-run through it like a hedgehog!” She rapped back without a breath and let her frustration by toweling the already dried utensils.

“Hedgehogs don’t speed though—” Attempting to update her information, but received a serious faced Ella instead, tight lipped and all, “I am trying to make a point!”

“Okay, okay! I hear you. I’ll do some ‘soul searching’ or whatever you call it.” Air quoting with a plastic cup and black marker in hand.

“Good.” And to that, the Ella Ted Talk™ has been concluded, leaving you with your own thoughts. Thankfully, the number of customers coming in for their midday cup of Joe would keep you busy from your head for now.

So… Here you were. With your apartment. And the box under your bed. You were fairly sure when Ella said take a gap year, she probably meant to go explore the world or however else people do it… Not trying to go to the past like a conspiracy theorist. You did not completely believe that the camera actually took you back there, but it was the only logical explanation—wait, no! What logical?! Nothing about this was logical! Oh god, now it was messing with your brain.

You paced around your flat for what was five long minutes, which felt like an hour of creaking on the wooden flooring and the strands of your sock getting snatched in the unpolished planks. If… If there was even a 1% chance of that ‘hallucination’ being real—and you actually time traveled, then you would just need to check for yourself… Right?

Sure, the week before that box showed up you were under so much stress, exams were crawling up your shoulders, textbooks were replacing the boogieman in your nightmares, and countless all-nighters were taking up your sleep schedule. So, it wouldn’t be strange that you started imagining the craziest scenarios, like being sent to the days before your parents met—were they even born yet?!

God, you were thinking far too much; it was about time you just ripped the band-aid off. Pulling out the cardboard box from its prison under your bed, swiftly swiping off a week’s worth of dust from the top before opening it up. Revealing the treasures you so hoped to ignore… And was that photo always there—?

The moment you opened up the box flaps, a familiar photo sat atop everything else, like it was purposely waiting for your attention. A perfectly developed picture of the Brooklyn Bridge taken from the Promenade—the same exact image you saw in the viewfinder, meaning the same one that you were sent to in the 1970s. Yeah, totally not terrifying at all… Chills ran down your spine, alarms blared in your mind screaming, that was not there before! Your reflexes kicked the box back under the bed—nope, not doing this today!

“Just take me! That’s it, I know you’re in here, you weird ass boogeyman,” yelling it for the neighbors to hear at this point, “just kill me already! C’mon, quick and painful!” Darting your sight to random corners of your fairly small flat, checking under the bed for some big bad burglar who’s playing a prank on you.

Sadly, to say the least, there was no robber, thief, or gigantic spider coming to reap your soul. How unfortunate… Falling on your back, the fluffy rug below, and staring out to the ceiling. A breath of what one would assume was frustration, maybe confusion, slipped past your lips. Your mind felt like it was racing with questions and possibilities, yet none at all. Thoughts moved far too fast for you to catch them, only making your head overheat from brain abuse caused by that stupid box.

Each inhale expanding your lungs was counting the seconds passing, and every exhale was a reminder of how you had nothing to lose. To your side, you saw the kicked box under the bed, sitting as if it could wait forever. Would it though?

Before your head got all panicky again, you sat up to pull in the box. No time like the present. Still somewhat opened, except with a new folded dent to the outer flap, caused by a certain someone’s quick swift kick. There it was, that photo. The reason for your hysterical week.

From your view, everything was mixed, jumbled, and stacked on top one another. Old captured memories, couple loose ticket stubs stuck between the box and a wooden chest, a curled up newspaper, and many other items that have tested the length of time. Including that camera…

First things first, there was no way you could search this entire pile while it was still a mess. You rolled up your sleeves and mentally cheered yourself on. Turning on a quick song to organize to while time passes by.

...queue background music...

Your shoulders danced as Maxine sang in her soulful melodies, mouthing with the lyrics as you laid each item in groups on your bed. Photos among photos, little trinkets clustered in another corner, papers and newspapers stacked to the side, concert ticket stubs, postcards, a folded paper of pressed flowers, and so many more physical memories in small bits and pieces were given a spot on your duvet.

Love is good, love can be strong! Maxine truthfully sang as you lifted the mini chest from the box and put it on your nightstand, the bed was already covered in groups of memorabilia, it would get too cluttered to add the chest as well. Floral designs were carved into the dark fruity colored wood, and a painted vine of roses greeted you from the top of the lid; caressing this little box that pressed on through time, your finger grazed upon a stuck out metal key. Reeling in your attention, a golden plated hand-crank chilled from a lack of warm touch. You lifted the wooden lid up, finding a glass protecting the musical mechanics of the instrument, meanwhile old dirtied coins and cut-out newspaper articles sat atop the glass. It was a music box, you realized, and cranked the handle to check if it still works. The R&B tunes phased out in the background, your breath held in as you expected a melodious ding.

…queue music box playing over…

And by god it did, magical twinkles and chimes danced around your apartment space. A single note took you back years. A single note surrounded you of memories as grandmother twirled in the kitchen, humming a tune you only knew as hers. Clanks of pots and pans accompanying her melodies, grandfather watching in admiration, a time when you could only be so carefree, so happy, and unaware of anything that was to come.

Hands hovered and stalled around the box, not sure if you wanted it to continue playing. Or to make it stop reminding you of a moment that would never return. How many times have you seen your grandma smile, even when you were a tiring brat, after she choked out an ugly cough, or during the times she waved to you goodbye when you had to leave. “It would be a waste of my life if I spent it unhappy, now wouldn’t it?” Gran had answered you once, asking why she always smiled no matter rain or shine. Had it been you who dealt with your own antics, all the days would be filled with groans and frowns. “The world’s a better place for everyone when you smile,” she added with a calmness over her eyes, holding you close as you hummed to her answer.

Those memories faded away, notes bridging over to another section of the song. Your eyes got lost in the box, fiddling with the souvenir coins grandmother stored and then looking over the torn out articles, it was announcing the opening of museums, gardens, and a new amusement park for couples and families to enjoy. She always loved fun lively venues…

Your eyes caught sight of a beige neglected sheet in the box. The musical box had completely taken over your attention, that the last item at the bottom was almost forgotten. A single paper adorned with folds, dents, and crinkles around the corner, some specs of dirt here and there, along with a big penciled header ‘Bucket List’ in a messy cursive style.

Following the title came a sentence that echoed like you had heard it a million times.

Life’s too short to keep saving for someday.

Something you’ve heard your grandfather say every time you postponed or procrastinated things you kept for later. That man had a way with words, especially for a ten year-old who did not yet understand how philosophical life could be.

A list of activities and plans filled the rest of the sheet. Some were shown complete with a checkmark, while others were left empty. Many were so ordinary, so domestic.

. . .

Learn somebody’s stories. ✓

Watch Manhattan wake up. ✓

Get lost on purpose.

Find a place that feels like home.

Go to a drive-in movie. ✓

Have one unforgettable day without my camera.

Eat ice-cream for dinner. ✓

Fly a kite. ✓

Visit every record store I can find. ✓

Be there for the people I love.

Write a letter I’ll never send.

. . .

The list continued for a few more entries, margins filled with rewritten ideas, while others were crossed out, as if whoever wrote this had far too many dreams and aspirations for life. Unsure of what to put down first. Likely in a hurry to write as well, coffee and an orangy stain colored the edges of the paper. And pen swirls in the top-most corner, something your grandfather did to test a pen’s ink.

. . .

Cook pancakes without setting off fire alarms.

Beat the old man at dancing ← He got moves!

Visit the Statue of Liberty.

Watch the sunset with somebody.

. . .

It hurt. It hurt to see someone who could think of something so small, so simple, and consider it bucket list worthy. Everything about this was filled with love and thought. The paper wasn’t perfect. The handwriting was messy, some words darker than others—caused by too much pressure—and the crinkles, stains, and scratches all said that this could have been thrown away if it were anyone else who wrote this. But here it was. In your hands. Saved in a box of memories, something to look back on.

He lived his life. Grandpa sounded like someone who was happy with even the smallest of moments. Did he have any regrets? Was he surviving on the edge until he saved enough for someday? Did Grandpa go down a path that he never truly wanted…?

He always had something to say, with stories to tell. There were still quite a few unchecked items on this list, yet Grandpa looked satisfied even as he passed away. Could you do the same? If the world had ended, would it be true to say you lived life…?

As your throat clogged with unsaid questions and an aching heart, your mind asked questions only you could answer. The music box gradually reached its end, light dings that rang in your ears, comforting your sadness until you were ready.

When would you stop trying to survive?