My name’s Raymond Bauford. Friends call me Ray. Mum used to call me her “little Ray of sunshine,” but that was before I dropped out of university. Technically, it wasn’t university—it was Technical College. But “university” had a better ring to it when she was bragging to her bridge club, so I let her run with it.

I enrolled in accounting. Not because I liked numbers, but because Mum had this dream that I’d follow in Dad’s footsteps. He was a businessman. Died in a car accident when I was a kid. I suppose she figured I’d pick up where he left off, like grief came with a career path.

Problem was, that my high school grades were allergic to ambition. University didn’t want me, so I settled for Technical College. Told Mum I was studying accounting, which was technically true. I just didn’t mention the “Introduction to” part. Every morning I’d leave for “campus,” which was really a squat brick building next to a bus depot. The deception held for a while. Then I quit.

I told Mum I’d dropped out of university. She didn’t say much. Just stopped calling me Ray. From then on, I was “Raymond.” Like she was addressing a distant cousin who’d disappointed her in a minor but permanent way.

Finding work as a dropout isn’t glamorous. I could’ve mowed lawns or washed windows, but I wanted something with a desk and a phone—preferably one that didn’t involve actual sunlight. I landed a job selling insurance over the phone. No interview. Just “show up tomorrow.” Either they saw potential, or they were desperate. I’ve been there four years now. I’m a senior insurance caller, which sounds impressive until you realise it means I’ve lasted longer than most.

Mum doesn’t care for the job. She perks up when I mention promotions, though. My supervisor says if I keep at it, I might be a supervisor myself by thirty. That’s the dream, apparently.

I live at home. Rent-free. No car. My biggest expense is Bronwyn—my girlfriend. She’s twenty-seven, two years older, and a few centimetres taller. Mum says she’s a show pony. I say she’s a classic brunette beauty. That is, some people think she’s gorgeous, others think she’s been hit with a shovel. I split the difference.

I pay for our dates, food, drinks, the occasional movie. That’s what gentlemen do, right? I’m no movie star myself—dark hair, slim build, slightly below average height. Bronwyn can be intimidating when she wears heels. But I’ve always believed character matters more than looks. Mum says that too. Usually when she’s talking about Bronwyn.

***

What does the future hold? Probably bills, back pain, and a growing suspicion that I peaked at twenty-three. People like to ask where you see yourself in five years. I usually say, “Fatter, but in charge.” It’s the kind of answer that gets you remembered—though not always hired.

Mum gave me Dad’s old vinyl—first pressing of The Dark Side of the Moon. Pink Floyd. The kind of music that makes you feel like you’re either enlightened or losing your grip. I played it to get to know Dad, posthumously. Turns out, he was into existential dread and British psychedelia. That checks out.

The track Time has this line: “And then one day you find ten years have got behind you: No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.” That lyric sits in my head like unpaid rent. Maybe it was Dad’s way of saying, “Don’t wait.” Or maybe he just liked the bassline. Hard to tell with dead people.

Then there’s Brain Damage: “There’s someone in my head, but it’s not me.” That one feels more accurate. Most days I’m not sure who’s steering the ship. I just hope they’ve got a map.

Marriage? I think about it. Mostly in the abstract, like taxes or the heat death of the universe. Bronwyn’s the current frontrunner. She’s got seniority and a decent smile. But do I want to see her every day—including weekends? That’s a lot of Bronwyn.

Mum doesn’t like her. Says she’s a sponge. I say she’s absorbent. It all depends on which angle you’re coming from. Maybe I’ll marry her after Mum dies. That’s a grim prerequisite, but it’s the only way I see peace breaking out at Sunday dinner.

Still, the idea doesn’t thrill me. I keep wondering if there’s someone else out there—someone who doesn’t mind splitting the bill and doesn’t critique my posture. Bronwyn’s not keen on that line of thinking. So for now, I coast.

I’m waiting for this phase of life to end. The part where you’re not quite young, not quite wise, and still figuring out if all this effort leads somewhere. I’d like to believe it does. Otherwise, I’ve been rehearsing for a play that never opens.

***

Work is what you do so you can afford to keep working. It’s a treadmill with a coffee break. At least the coffee’s free. The money’s terrible, but my overheads are low—unless you count Bronwyn, which I do.

Still, the job keeps me off the streets and out of Mum’s line of sight. Bronwyn asked if there were any openings at the call centre. I told her no, which was technically true and emotionally strategic. She’d fit in well, though—chatting with the guys, mastering the art of minimal effort. She’s got a talent for appearing busy while doing absolutely nothing. It’s a gift.

People don’t retire anymore. They just get replaced by younger versions with better teeth and worse posture. Uncle Albert’s the exception. Dad’s brother. Professor of physics. Must be pushing seventy-five. The university can’t seem to shake him. He doesn’t teach—just loiters in the faculty lounge, muttering about quantum paradoxes and the enigma of toast always falling to the floor on the buttered side.

I’ve always fancied myself an entrepreneur. If I had the capital—and the courage—I’d open a shop that sells nothing but apologies. One for every occasion. “Sorry I forgot your birthday.” “Sorry I ghosted you after three dates.” “Sorry I exist.” It’d be niche, but I think there’s a market.

There might be a streak of madness in the family. Aside from the Pink Floyd vinyl and its lyrical descent into lunacy, I have a hazy memory of Dad fixing a toaster with a butter knife and a curse word. Could’ve been him. Could’ve been me. My formative years are starting to resemble a foggy documentary narrated by someone with a drinking problem.

Mum’s not mad. She’s sharp—though maybe only as sharp as a butter knife. She multitasks like a military drone. Just yesterday, she was ironing, watching daytime TV, and critiquing Bronwyn’s footwear all at once. I tried to tell her about a possible promotion at work. She nodded and said, “That’s nice, dear. Did you buy the milk?”

She doesn’t see Bronwyn’s good side. I do. Bronwyn’s smart—sometimes unintentionally profound. Last night she told me, “I don’t believe in soulmates, but I do believe in shared data plans.” That’s the kind of poetry you don’t get from Shakespeare. Or maybe you do, but he didn’t have Wi-Fi.

Anyway, I’m learning to take life as it comes—one lukewarm coffee and half-hearted compliment at a time. As Uncle Albert once said, while misaligning a telescope: “You may as well cheer up. The future’s not getting any better, but at least it’s arriving on schedule.” Or is it?

***

Summer had arrived like an overenthusiastic houseguest—loud, sweaty, and impossible to ignore. I’d spent all winter complaining about the cold, but now I found myself secretly eager for its return. Winter might be bleak, but at least it doesn’t stick to your skin like guilt at a family reunion.

Summer, they say, is the season of optimism. People laugh louder, wear fewer clothes, and pretend their lives are going somewhere. It’s the time to innovate, invigorate, and appreciate. So naturally, I was sitting on the couch watching an old John Wayne flick with Mum, marinating in my own perspiration.

I’d come home early from work—the air conditioner at the call centre had finally given up. Unfortunately, Mum’s cooling philosophy was based on stubbornness and a wall thermometer. She refused to turn on the air con until it hit twenty-eight degrees. “Open windows and cross breezes,” she said, as if humidity were a myth invented by weak men.

John Wayne wasn’t helping. He was squinting at the horizon like it owed him money. There’s a poster of him at work, too. Underneath it reads: “Life is hard; it’s harder if you’re stupid.” I’m beginning to think it’s less a quote and more a company motto.

Right as Wayne was about to shoot someone who probably deserved it, the doorbell chimed. Not that it mattered—the front door was already open. Uncle Albert stepped in like he owned the place.

“Hello there, Catherine,” he said, nodding at Mum. “And look who else we have—my favourite nephew, little Raymond.”

“Hello Albert,” Mum said, “what brings you here today?”

“Just checking in. Thought I’d see if you needed anything. Also, I came to invite you both to the university open day tomorrow. Starts around two.”

“Oh, Albert, that sounds lovely,” Mum replied. “But I’ve got bridge on Saturday. Raymond would love to go, though.”

I hadn’t spoken yet, mostly because I was trying to blend into the upholstery. The idea of spending a Saturday at a university made my skin crawl—and not just from the heat. I needed an escape clause.

“Sure, Uncle Albert,” I said. “Mind if I bring a friend?”

“Of course,” he beamed. “One of your schoolmates?”

“I don’t go to school anymore,” I said. “I work now.”

“He was studying accounting,” Mum added helpfully.

“Excellent,” Albert said. “Just like your dear old dad.”

“Not quite,” I muttered, steering the conversation away from family expectations. “I’ve got a girlfriend. She’ll come with me.”

“Very good, Raymond,” he said with a wink. “There’ll be food and drinks. Alcoholic, I’m told.”

“Then she’ll definitely be there,” I said.

Albert chuckled. “Excellent, excellent. And I must say—it’s a tad warm in here. Air conditioner broken, Catherine?”

Mum glanced at the thermometer like it had betrayed her. “It’s working, Albert. I was just about to turn it on.” She reached for the remote she keeps within arm’s reach, like a weapon of last resort.

“Good, good,” Albert said, handing me two passes. “You don’t need them for the public areas, but after five, there’ll be special events. Food, drinks, and I’ll give you and your lady friend a tour of my lab.”

“Thanks, Uncle Albert,” I said, taking the passes. “Sounds great.”

“Well then,” he said, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket. “I’ll be off. Catherine, stay well. Raymond, I’ll see you and your charming companion tomorrow.”

“Goodbye,” Mum said.

“See you tomorrow,” I echoed.

And with that, Uncle Albert let himself out, leaving John Wayne to flirt with a saloon girl and me to reconsider my life choices in a puddle of sweat.

***

Bronwyn showed up just before two, which for her was practically early. She had this theory that time was a flexible concept—like yoga for clocks. Punctuality, she claimed, was for people with boring lives and wristwatches.

We weren’t in a rush anyway. The university open day didn’t get interesting until five, when the food and booze came out. Everything before that was just academic foreplay.

Mum wasn’t thrilled with Bronwyn’s outfit—tight jeans, tighter singlet. It was hot, and Bronwyn dressed like she was auditioning for a music video set in a laundromat. I thought she looked great. Saturday summer wear, functional and provocative. I matched her with jeans and a T-shirt. Mum insisted I bring a light jacket. For what, I had no idea. Maybe she thought the physics department had a dress code.

The bus ride was a sauna on wheels. The air conditioning was a cracked window that let you stick your arm out and contemplate escape. I figured they kept it that way to discourage passengers from jumping out mid-route.

We got to the university around four and wandered aimlessly until Bronwyn, ever the strategist, said, “Let’s just follow the herd.” It worked. We merged into the flow of hopeful students and caffeine-fuelled volunteers handing out gym memberships, book club flyers, and invitations to join obscure societies that probably involved interpretive dance.

The faculties were out in force—chemistry, biology, law, engineering, the arts. Physics had the smallest booth and the biggest glasses. I found myself oddly drawn to all of it. Maybe it was the heatstroke. Or maybe, buried somewhere beneath my call-centre cynicism, was a guy who wanted to learn something real.

Bronwyn played nice with the staff, especially the male ones, then mocked them as soon as we were out of earshot. Her snark was surgical. I admired it, even as I winced.

By five, she was visibly wilting—bored, irritable, and scanning for alcohol like a bloodhound at a vineyard. We circled back to the physics booth and asked about the special events section. I felt like I was asking for contraband.

“Oh,” said the young woman behind the desk, “just head toward that brick building over there. I’ll be your greeter, apparently. I’m packing up now—I’ll walk you down.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Lead the way.”

“I’m Penny,” she added. “Administrator for the physics department.”

She was small, sharp, and blonde—like a scalpel with a bob cut. Bronwyn took an instant dislike to her and adopted a tactical silence for the entire walk. I chatted with Penny, who was refreshingly normal.

When we arrived, I handed her the two passes.

“Oh goody,” she said. “These are from Professor Bauford. Do you know him?”

“He’s my uncle,” I replied.

“I just love him,” Penny said. “He’s so gregarious and funny. I hope he never retires.”

“Well, I wouldn’t bet on immortality,” I said. “Anyway, I’m Ray. This is Bronwyn.”

“Lovely to meet you, Ray. I hope you both enjoy tonight.”

Bronwyn didn’t respond. She was staring off toward the sound of clinking beer bottles like a cat hearing a can opener.

I smiled, thanked Penny, and drifted into the courtyard—surrounded by physics nerds, exotic snacks, and the promise of free drinks. It wasn’t exactly paradise, but it was close enough for a Saturday.

***

The so-called “special events” were hosted by the science department—physics, chemistry, biology, and earth sciences all crammed together like a nerdy family reunion with too much funding and not enough social skills. No walls between faculties, just a shared courtyard and a mutual disdain for undergrads.

BBQs were firing on all cylinders, and the smell of grilled onions hung in the air like a promise. Drinks emerged from under tables and behind banners, as if alcohol were a rare mineral being mined in real time. Bronwyn and I snagged a couple of already-open beers and drank like we’d just crossed a desert—one paved with academic brochures and unsolicited enthusiasm.

The crowd was chatty, but tribal. Little clusters formed around the courtyard—postgrads, PhDs, lab techs, and the occasional professor who’d forgotten how to smile. Bronwyn fit in effortlessly. The guys made room for her like she was royalty. I tagged along like her slightly confused footman.

Conversations revolved around failed experiments, lost grants, and professors who graded with vengeance. We drifted into a group of physics staff complaining about undergrads who couldn’t tell a quark from a croissant. Bronwyn, dressed like summer had personally invited her to the party, decided to shift the tone.

“Hey guys,” she said, cutting through the chatter. “If you ever go into the adult film industry, here’s how you pick your stage name.”

Silence. The kind that makes you check if someone’s pulled the fire alarm.

“First pet’s name,” she continued, unfazed. “Plus, the street you grew up on. Mine? Pixie Abercrombie.”

Still silence. One guy looked like he was trying to disappear into his beer. Another adjusted his glasses like they might help him escape.

I stepped in to rescue the moment. “Well, that’s one way to clear a room,” I said. “So, is everyone here from physics?”

A few nods. One tall guy with a telescope’s worth of glasses said, “Yes. Once you’re in, you never leave.”

“I second that,” added a woman with matching specs. “No one hires us. We’re too qualified to be useful.”

Laughter. The kind that comes from shared despair.

Someone asked where we were from. Bronwyn beat me to it.

“I’m exploring options,” she said. “Got a few openings coming up.” The guys looked down like their shoes had suddenly become fascinating.

“Ray dropped out of accounting,” she added. “Said it didn’t add up.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” said the tall guy.

Bronwyn, having drained the social battery of that group, pulled me toward another table for a refill. We mingled, broke into conversations, and broke out of them just as fast.

While chatting with a couple of chemistry postgrads, I overheard a conversation nearby.

“Old nutty Professor Bauford,” said a confident male voice. “Why do they even keep him around?”

“And that time machine,” replied a woman. “Seriously?”

“You’re joking,” said the guy. “He’s the department’s embarrassment.”

“They keep him away from students,” she said. “Harmless, I guess.”

“Crackers,” he added. “Completely crackers.”

My eavesdropping was interrupted by Penny, who appeared like a Saturday afternoon breeze.

“Hi Ray,” she said. “I see you’ve found the beer.”

“Found it, lost it, found it again,” I replied. “You want one?”

“I’m parched,” she said. “Twist my arm.”

We grabbed drinks and found a quiet spot. Penny leaned in, conspiratorial.

“There’s talk in the department,” she said. “Some folks are jealous of your uncle’s budget.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He used it to build something... unconventional.”

“Define unconventional.”

“A time machine.”

I laughed. “Of course he did.”

Penny smiled. “He’s brilliant. Just not... popular.”

She excused herself to guard the entrance from gatecrashers. I watched her go, disappointed. She was easy company—rare in a place full of people who spoke in equations.

In all that time talking with Penny, I’d completely forgotten about Bronwyn—who, true to form, had vanished. I went looking and found her in an alley, deep in conversation with a guy who was leaning in like he’d misplaced his hearing aid in her cleavage. They hadn’t noticed me. I considered interrupting, then decided maybe he was just hard of hearing, and she was being helpful. Very helpful. I wandered off, ate a sausage, had another beer—possibly two. Emotional clarity wasn’t on the menu, but the mustard was decent.

Eventually, Uncle Albert arrived, nodding at people who smiled like they hadn’t just mocked him. He was unfazed, as always, and made his way to me.

“Raymond, my boy,” he said. “Glad you came. Met the physics crowd?”

“I have,” I said, slurring slightly. “Distinguished bunch.”

“Excellent, excellent,” he replied. “Care for a tour of the lab?”

“Sounds good. What about Bronwyn?”

“What about me?” she said, appearing like a ninja with a beer.

“Want to see the lab?”

“Sure. Can I bring this?”

“By all means,” Albert said. “Follow me.”

We followed him into a brick building that looked like it had given up on being interesting sometime in the 1970s. I had no idea what was coming next—but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be boring.

***

Surprisingly, the physics building wasn’t the dusty relic I’d expected. Inside, it was sleek, bright, and suspiciously spacious—like Doctor Who’s TARDIS, minus the British accent and existential dread. Uncle Albert led us through the undergrad labs, where benches were cluttered with the usual physics paraphernalia: fulcrums, inclined planes, pendulums, balls, wires, and enough circuits to make a toaster nervous.

The postgrad rooms were more impressive—supercomputers humming quietly, oscilloscopes blinking like caffeinated eyes, lasers, flywheels, and scaled models of aircraft and spacecraft. I picked up a miniature rocket and made a whooshing sound, because maturity is optional. Albert, unfazed, explained that the models were used in wind tunnels to study aerodynamics. Bronwyn looked glazed over—either from the science or the beer. Probably both. She hadn’t eaten, and her blood alcohol level was approaching theoretical physics.

Albert pressed on.

“Now, in the next lab,” he said, eyes twinkling, “I have something very special. Follow me.”

Two doors down, we entered a room that looked like a hardware store had exploded inside a server farm. Plumbing, wires, screens, and a generous helping of unidentifiable contraptions filled every corner. One desk was buried under papers that had given up on being organised and were now staging a slow-motion avalanche.

“Oh yes, yes,” Albert said, waving us through. “Mind the mess. Just step over anything that looks like it might bite.”

We navigated the chaos and arrived at a hulking piece of metal at the far end of the lab. It looked like a hatch salvaged from a submarine—arched top, reinforced bottom, no door, just an open portal. The surface was studded with coloured lights, toggles, switches, and scattered circuitry that screamed “experimental” in several languages.

“Here is my special project,” Albert beamed.

“It’s fantastic,” I said, summoning enthusiasm from somewhere near my liver. “What is it?”

Bronwyn, who had drifted off to inspect a wall socket, rejoined us just in time.

“It’s a means to step across large quantities of time,” Albert said, as if he were describing a new brand of hiking boot.

“A time machine,” I said.

“Well, not strictly speaking,” Albert replied. “You can’t go backward. From this portal, anyway. And currently, it only jumps twenty years forward.”

“So... still a time machine,” Bronwyn said, re-entering the conversation like she’d never left.

“Yes, I suppose it could be called that,” Albert conceded, diplomatically.

“Does it work?” I asked, because someone had to.

“I believe so,” Albert said. “I’ve sent several items through. They disappeared, which is promising.”

“Right,” I said, the beer dulling my scepticism. “How do you get back?”

“That’s something you’d need to sort out on the other side, dear Raymond.”

“What? It’s not automatic?”

“In a way,” Albert said. “Once the portal is activated here, it should retain enough charge to bring you back to this exact point in time.”

My head began to throb. Bronwyn nodded sagely, which didn’t help.

“You see,” Albert continued, “the portal is wrapped in 7,450 windings of copper and silver shrouded in Samarium Cobalt. One winding for each day in twenty years. I could adjust the jump by changing the number of windings, but winding copper and silver around this thing is a nightmare. And Samarium Cobalt? Agony. It’s like working with angry magnets.”

“So twenty years it is,” I concluded. “What happened to the stuff you sent through?”

“I imagine it’s sitting just outside the portal in the future. Unless someone’s picked it up.”

“What did you send?” Bronwyn asked.

“Let me think... a banana and an egg-and-mayonnaise sandwich.”

“Clearly someone was hungry,” I said.

“Possibly,” Albert replied. “But I’m confident they made the jump.”

“So what now?” I asked.

“Well,” Albert said, “ideally, I’d go through myself. But I’m waiting on departmental approval.”

I didn’t say anything, but I mentally filed that under “never happening.”

“Not to worry,” Albert said cheerfully. “Let’s get back to the festivities. Talking about sandwiches has made me peckish.”

And with that, we left the lab and rejoined the crowd—where the beer was colder, the sausages were hotter, and the future was quietly waiting behind a steel archway.

***

My alcoholic haze wasn’t retreating—it was digging in. Probably had something to do with the steady stream of cold beer I kept “discovering” like a thirsty archaeologist. The heat hadn’t let up, even with the sun gone and the courtyard lit like a budget carnival. Humidity clung to everything, including my mood.

Bronwyn had vanished again. I’d seen her once, chatting with the guy who might’ve been deaf or just really into lip-reading. Uncle Albert was making his rounds, greeted with polite nods and thin smiles. The staff treated him like a retired general—half reverence, half fear. Maybe they thought he still had the power to derail their careers with a well-placed equation.

Penny was nowhere to be seen. Probably still guarding the gates from rogue undergrads. Small frame, big presence. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of her clipboard. Still, I wished she’d come back to the crowd—and to me.

After another beer (or maybe it was the same one, reincarnated), I decided to wander back into the lab. The rockets in the postgrad room had a certain charm. Maybe I’d go play astronaut. The air inside was cooler, like the building had air conditioning and secrets.

I couldn’t find the postgrad lab. The corridors twisted like they were trying to lose me. I leaned on walls for balance, the floor gently tilting in sympathy. Then, finally, a familiar door.

“Ah,” I muttered. “This must be the one.”

“Where are you going?” Bronwyn appeared beside me, stealthy as a tax audit.

“No idea,” I said. “Just poking around. It’s cooler in here.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go in,” she said, like she owned the place.

I hesitated. This was my adventure. But I opened the door anyway. We were back in Albert’s lab—chaos, wires, and the looming metal arch that looked like it had been ripped from a submarine designed by a madman.

“What are we doing here?” Bronwyn asked, already bored.

“Still no idea,” I said. “Just following the breadcrumbs.”

We weaved through the clutter until we stood before the time machine. It hummed quietly, like it knew something we didn’t.

“Oh look, Ray,” Bronwyn said. “Why don’t you give it a go?”

“A go?”

“Step through it, genius. What do you think I mean?”

“I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t know how to turn it on.”

Bronwyn reached over and flicked a switch like she was starting a blender. Lights blinked, then held steady. The hum deepened—a sound you could feel in your teeth.

“Go on,” she said, pushing me toward it.

I resisted, but the beer had turned my legs into polite suggestions. “Bronwyn, cut it out,” I said, trying for assertive and landing somewhere near mildly annoyed.

She laughed and shoved harder. I planted a foot at the base of the portal and turned to face her.

“Okay. Just don’t push.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Scout’s honour.”

Something inside me—not beer, not bravado—nudged me forward. What was there to lose? I could come back. Probably. And if not? Well, Bronwyn would be stuck here without me. That didn’t sound so bad.

I stepped into the portal.

***

Two things hit me like a sledgehammer—one to the head, one to the gut. First: I wasn’t in Uncle Albert’s lab anymore. Maybe the machine worked. Or maybe I’d just wandered into a particularly eccentric janitor’s closet. Hard to tell. The room was filled with stuffed animals, skeletons, vintage Apple computers, and enough oddities to make a taxidermist question their life choices.

Second: I’d stepped into something soft, wet, and morally offensive. Looking down, I saw the remains of a banana and what used to be a sandwich—now a mouldy tribute to poor refrigeration. I scraped my shoe on the carpet, apologising silently to whatever curator had to clean it up.

The portal was still behind me, but it wasn’t in Albert’s lab. It was roped off like a museum exhibit, which, judging by the décor, might actually be the case. I stepped over the barrier and wandered deeper into the building. Oversized vegetables hung from the walls. Medical instruments glinted ominously. The lighting was theatrical, the vibe unsettling.

Then came the voice.

“Hey you! What are you doing? We’re closed! Hey—stop!”

I didn’t stop. I galloped. Not gracefully, but with purpose. I spotted a door, tried the handle—locked. Then remembered how doors work and turned the latch. It opened. I bolted outside, down the steps, and into the street.

The cold hit me like a betrayal. My lungs seized. The air was sharp, laced with sleet and regret. “How can it be this cold?” I muttered, shivering in my jeans and T-shirt. Mum had insisted I bring a jacket. I’d ignored her. Or lost it. Or left it in the past. Either way, I was dressed for summer and standing in winter.

The alcohol evaporated. Whether it was the cold or the adrenaline, I was suddenly very sober and very aware that I’d just time-travelled into a season I wasn’t emotionally prepared for.

I caught my breath—what little there was—and watched it puff out like smoke signals. The street looked vaguely familiar. I retraced my steps and spotted a glowing sign at the far end: Strange Science Museum. Right. That’s where I’d landed. I turned and walked the other way.

A few blocks later, I saw it—my old call centre. Lit up like a Christmas tree. Odd, since we didn’t operate on weekends, and certainly not at night. I climbed the steps and slipped inside.

The foyer buzzed with chatter. I followed the noise and ducked into a kitchenette. It had a coffee machine that looked like it could file taxes and a décor that screamed “2020s startup with questionable ethics.”

“Why haven’t I seen this before?” I whispered.

I crept toward the main office, peeking through an archway. The place had been upgraded—flat screens everywhere, dual monitors per desk, sleek laptops humming like they knew secrets. Something was off.

Then she appeared.

“Hey Jim,” said a woman from a side office. “Any progress with that guy you mentioned?”

It was Bronwyn. Older, rougher, but unmistakably her.

Jim replied, “Work in progress. He thinks he’s about to make an exclusive investment. I’ve sent all the fake brochures and reviews. Just need a bit more time.”

Bronwyn nodded. “Fine. But I need you chasing more than one sucker. There’s plenty out there ready to hand over their money.”

My knees wobbled. This was a scam call centre—and Bronwyn was running it.

She moved closer to another man. I ducked behind a pillar, but her voice carried.

“Mike, I’m sorry. I’ve been wrangling idiots all night. Want a nightcap at the hotel? Maybe check out my new furniture?”

Furniture? That was new.

Mike chuckled. “Sounds good, Bronny. But what about Ray? Won’t he be around?”

“Forget Ray. I sent him on an overnight trip to set up another centre. He won’t be bothering us.”

Mike leaned in. “Why’d you ever marry Ray?”

That’s when my legs gave out. I hit the wall with a thud.

“What was that?” Bronwyn snapped

I burst out of the kitchenette and into the hallway, then down the steps like the building was on fire—which, in a way, it was. The cold hit me again, full force. Not just cold—vindictive cold. The kind that doesn’t just bite, it gnaws. I ran because thinking was no longer an option. My brain had gone into hibernation and left my legs in charge.

I reached the park, where two homeless men were cocooned in blankets like survivalists in a war zone. I envied them. At least they were dressed for the apocalypse. I collapsed onto a bench, shaking so violently I woke one of them.

“Oi! Quit rattling the furniture—I’m trying to sleep.”

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I’ll freeze quietly.”

He grunted, took a swig from something that smelled like regret, and disappeared back into his blanket cave.

I tried to think. Tried to stitch together the nightmare. My call centre was a scam factory. I was married to Bronwyn—who was cheating on me with someone named Mike and possibly half the IT department. Oddly, I wasn’t heartbroken. She was bigger, louder, and had the charm of a tax audit. But still—this was my future?

Twenty years. That’s what Albert said. Twenty years forward. I was living in the aftermath of choices I hadn’t made yet. I didn’t want to see myself. I wasn’t ready to meet the man I’d become.

The shaking got worse. I stood up, walked in circles, tried to reboot my body. Then it hit me—harder than the cold. I had to get back. I couldn’t stay here. Not in this timeline. Not in this skin.

Albert had said the portal might still be charged. That was my only hope. I kicked into power-walk mode, limbs stiff but determined. Around the corner, the Strange Science Museum loomed like a haunted house with a grant budget.

I climbed the steps and pushed the door, expecting resistance. It opened. Unlocked. Maybe no one had bothered to secure it after my earlier visit. I slipped inside—and the alarm exploded.

It was deafening. Sirens, flashing lights, and the stuffed animals seemed to mock me from their glass prisons. The mounted fruits looked smug. I ran, following the path of absurdity until I saw it—the portal.

I jumped the rope like a drunk hurdler. Behind me, footsteps thundered. The same guy from before, now in full security mode.

“Hey! You again! What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted, as if volume could reverse time.

I didn’t answer. I stepped over the rotten banana and the ghost of Albert’s sandwich. The portal hummed, lights steady. I didn’t hesitate.

***

I landed in Uncle Albert’s drab laboratory like a sack of remorse. It felt like paradise. The air was warm, the lighting was indifferent, and best of all—no one was trying to scam retirees.

Then Albert stepped out from behind the portal like a magician who’d misplaced his rabbit.

“Raymond, my boy! Back in one piece, I see. And upright too—bonus points.”

“Uncle Albert, it’s good to be back. I don’t like the future. And I really don’t like your door into winter.”

“Winter?” He frowned. “It should’ve been twenty years exactly. 7,450 days.”

My dormant accounting brain stirred. Or maybe it was Dad’s DNA doing long division in my head. “Uncle Albert, that’s twenty years and five months. Twenty years is 7,300 days.”

Albert paused, hand to chin, entering what I call ‘theoretical mode.’ “Hmm. You’re right. Another five months would drop you squarely into winter. Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“Easy for you to say. I nearly froze to death in a scam call centre.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But I must say, I’m a little disappointed you used the portal without telling me. It’s just not done, Raymond. And your mother would be livid if you came back as a popsicle.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Albert. I may have had a few drinks. I wasn’t thinking. Life’s been a bit... flat lately. I figured, why not?”

Albert waved it off. “Perfectly understandable. I’d have gone myself, but regulations, you know. And I trust you more than most of the faculty. Although, one small favour.”

I nodded.

“Don’t tell your mother. She’ll have me disassembled.”

I nodded again, with full legal compliance.

“Now come into my office and we’ll chat about your adventure.”

“We’re already in your office.”

“Oh yes, yes, of course. Well, sit here then.” He cleared a chair with the grace of a man who’s never filed anything alphabetically.

I sat. “Where’s Bronwyn?”

“Out talking to the boys. Quite popular, isn’t she?”

“Oh yes,” I said, as a black memory flickered behind my eyes.

“Anyway, Raymond, tell me everything. Don’t leave out the juicy bits.”

I spilled it all. Like a therapy session with soldering irons. The scam centre. Bronwyn’s betrayal. The sleet. The banana. The existential dread. Albert listened like a man who’d waited decades for someone to validate his madness.

When I finished, he went quiet. Then: “Well, there’s only one thing for it.”

“What’s that?”

“We change the timeline, of course.”

I blinked. “How?”

“Adjustments, Raymond. You tweak the present to modify the future.”

I was still foggy. “What kind of adjustments?”

“Well, say I’d become a plumber instead of a physicist—no portal, no time travel, just blocked drains and existential peace. Same logic applies to relationships. If you don’t want to be married to someone in twenty years, don’t date them now. It’s not rocket science. Though I do have rockets, if you’d prefer a visual aid.”

It clicked. Like a light switch in a blackout. Bronwyn had to go. But before I could act on that epiphany, she walked in.

“Oh my god, you’re alive! I thought you’d vanished forever. I panicked and went outside.”

“Yes, and then went back to mingling. Thanks for the concern.”

“Now, now,” Albert said. “Bronwyn’s not to blame. You’re the one who stepped through the door.” He winked at me like a man who’d just handed me a shovel and pointed to a shallow grave.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, quietly.

“And look,” Bronwyn said, holding up my jacket. “Found this.”

“Thanks. That would’ve been useful in the Arctic.”

After a few pleasantries, we wandered back to the thinning crowd. The beer was gone, and so were most of the people. I was exhausted. I hinted at catching the bus home. Bronwyn didn’t object.

The ride was quiet. She eventually asked about the portal.

“I ended up twenty years into the future,” I said. “Tried not to run into anyone. Found a place called the Strange Science Museum.”

She nodded, vaguely amused. But I could tell she was only half listening. Probably thinking about Mike and his eye for new furniture.

I needed to break up with Bronwyn. But the coward in me suggested tomorrow. Or maybe the next tomorrow. Or the one after that.

The bus reached my stop. Bronwyn gave me a quick kiss—more habit than affection—and I jumped off.

She headed home alone.

***

I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The air was cool and dry—Mum’s thermostat must’ve hit its sacred threshold. She was parked in front of the television, eyes glazed, remote in hand like a sceptre.

“Is that you, Ray, or just a burglar?” she called out without turning.

“It’s a burglar, Mum.”

“Well, tell him to close the door behind him.”

“I will, Mum.”

I considered heading straight to my room, but guilt—or inertia—nudged me toward the TV room. Mum was watching something loud and pointless, which narrowed it down to most of the evening programming.

“Did Uncle Albert look after you, Raymond?” she asked, eyes still on the screen.

“He did. Plenty of food, drink, and a few new acquaintances.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Hopefully some lady acquaintances.”

“There was one,” I said. “Seemed nice.”

“When’s she coming for dinner?”

“Mum, I’ve known her for five minutes. And I’m still technically with Bronwyn.”

“Yes, but not much of a girlfriend, Raymond.”

That one stung. But then I remembered future Bronwyn—larger, louder, and running a scam empire. Mum might’ve had a point.

“You know what, Mum? You might be right. I’m thinking of ending it. Probably best for both of us.”

Mum sat up, finally giving the television a break. “Oh, Raymond. That’s what I’ve been saying for months. You need to get out more. I’m glad Albert came around. He’s good for you. Mad, but good.”

“Me too, Mum. It’s been a big day. You wouldn’t believe how big.”

“Try me.”

“Maybe tomorrow. I’m off to bed.”

“Goodnight, Raymond.”

“Night, Mum.”

She turned back to the television, and I headed to my room—one step closer to rewriting my future, and one step further from Bronwyn.

I lay on my bed, fully clothed and mentally scrambled. My head spun like a cheap ceiling fan, and the whole portal escapade felt like something I’d hallucinated after too much supermarket sushi. Was that really my future? Scam calls, betrayal, and Bronwyn in woollen layers?

I tried to picture a better outcome. One where I wasn’t married to a woman who ran a criminal enterprise and flirted like a damp towel. Maybe I’d end up on a park bench with the other blanket philosophers. At least they didn’t ask for bank details.

There were options, I told himself. Degrees of freedom. I just needed to plant a few seeds—and maybe burn a few bridges.

Just as my mood began to thaw and my limbs started to relax, the doorbell rang.

Mum’ll get it, I thought. I’m done with people today.

The bedroom door creaked open. Mum poked her head in, looking mildly panicked.

“Raymond, there’s someone here for you. It’s a policewoman.”

“What? For me?”

“Yes, dear. I’m just glad you’ve got pants on. She’s on the porch. Looks familiar—maybe from one of those crime shows.”

I groaned, got up, and shuffled past her to the front door.

Two things hit me immediately. One: the woman was dressed for a blizzard—jumper, scarf, heavy coat. Two: she looked disturbingly familiar.

Then my legs gave out.

I quickly slammed the door behind me. It was Bronwyn. Future Bronwyn. Bigger, older, and sweating like a roast in a slow cooker.

“Well, hello there, Ray,” she said, wiping her forehead. “You’re looking very young and dashing.”

I stared. Words refused to cooperate.

“Oh, come on—it’s me. Your loving wife of the future.”

Eventually, my mouth caught up. “What... what are you doing here, Bronwyn?”

I resisted the urge to add “the enlarged edition.”

“Let’s be straight, Ray. I saw someone bolt from our call centre—your call centre too, remember—and I thought, ‘That guy looks familiar.’ Then I realised it was you. Well, younger you. Same awkward clothes. I saw you run to the park, then into the museum. Alarms were going off like a disco. I saw you go through Albert’s portal. I ran into Trevor.”

“Trevor who?”

“Trevor Blight. Museum security. Lovely guy. Bit of a crush on me, actually. Anyway, I brushed him aside and followed you through.”

“But why?”

“I was worried you got the wrong idea.”

I blinked. “Why would I ever think that?”

“You probably overheard the operators.”

“I did. And I didn’t like it.”

Bronwyn sighed. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Then what is it?”

“Well... it is a scam call centre. But I’m working undercover. Police investigation.”

Ray squinted. “If you’re in the police, why isn’t current-you even remotely interested in law enforcement?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then please. Uncomplicate.”

“Fine. I’m not technically a policewoman. I’m a registered informant.”

“So... a glorified snitch.”

“No, Ray. A registered informant. There’s a difference.”

I wasn’t buying it. Probably got caught and flipped to save herself. “And what about me? If this blows up, I go down with you.”

“Oh no, Ray. I’m doing this for us. Once I gather enough evidence, we’ll both be exempt.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s comforting.”

Bronwyn tried a new angle. “We make a good couple, Ray. We’ve come so far. Life’s good.”

I thought of Mike. And the furniture. Bronwyn clearly didn’t know I'd overheard that little gem.

Then she leaned in. “I almost forgot how handsome you were twenty years ago. Maybe we could... reconnect before I head back?”

I recoiled. Bronwyn had always been taller, older, and now she was wrapped in enough wool to insulate a small village. Rivers of sweat ran down her cheeks like she was melting from the inside.

“Bronwyn, I don’t think that’s allowed. Time casualty laws.”

I had no idea what that meant. Probably heard it in a movie.

Bronwyn nodded solemnly. “Right. Of course. I hadn’t thought of that. Shame, really.” She winked—sweaty and unconvincing.

I was regaining my footing. “Still doesn’t explain why you came here.”

Bronwyn straightened, despite the heat. “I came to make sure we still have a future. To explain the call centre. It’s not what it seems. You need to marry my younger self, Ray. And trust me—you won’t be disappointed. We’ll have a ball.”

Another wink. Another wave of nausea.

“Ray, do you promise everything will be alright?”

“I do,” I said, mostly to end the conversation.

“Great. I knew I could count on you. Now I’ve got to get back. Important work to do.”

Sure you do, I thought. Mike’s probably waiting with a bottle of wine and a tape measure.

Bronwyn leaned in and planted a sweaty kiss on my cheek before I could dodge.

“See you later, darling,” she said, waddling off down the street, dragging her coat behind her like a bad decision with sleeves.

I stood there, stunned. Then wiped my cheek and went inside.

***

Sunday morning. I was finishing my porridge like it was a chore, and Mum was sipping her tea with the solemnity of a judge.

“You never told me what that dreadful policewoman wanted,” she said, eyes on the steam rising from her cup. “I heard you talking out there for ages, but I had to go to bed. Those awful old movies wear me out.”

I shrugged. “Something about people getting scammed. Inheritance fraud.”

“Well, lucky for you I’ve got nothing to leave,” Mum said, deadpan. “So what’s that got to do with you?”

“They thought we might’ve overheard something at the call centre. Just gossip, really.”

“And she came around late Saturday night? That doesn’t sound right.” Mum’s nose twitched. She could smell a rat through drywall.

“She said it was the only shift she had available,” I lied, spooning the last of my porridge like it might save me.

Mum was already losing interest. “Well, I hope she doesn’t come back at that hour. I need my sleep.”

“She won’t, Mum. I told her straight.”

“Good boy, Raymond. Now I wish you’d sort that other one out.”

I froze. “What other one?”

“Bronwyn, of course. Weren’t you planning to drop her and find someone new?”

“Oh... right. I forgot. I’ll deal with it when I see her. Haven’t got a replacement lined up just yet.”

Before I could finish the sentence, the doorbell rang.

Mum stood. “I hope it’s not that policewoman again.”

She disappeared down the hall. Ray took a final mouthful of porridge, bracing for impact. Moments later, Mum returned—with Bronwyn. The younger version. The one still full of opinions and lip gloss.

“Oh no,” I thought. “I’m being haunted by Bronwyn’s. I need a priest.”

“Morning,” I said, swallowing hard. “What brings you here so early?”

Mum sat back down without offering Bronwyn a seat. Bronwyn stood, hand on my shoulder like she was claiming territory.

“I thought we could go to the Sunday Markets. You up for it?”

Something snapped. I felt it—like a rubber band finally giving way. This was the moment.

“Bronwyn, there’s something I need to talk about first. Let’s go to my room.”

“Oh, you’re the boss,” she said, with a smirk that could curdle milk.

As we walked off, Mum called out, “Leave that door open!”

I countered, “Shut it behind you.”

Bronwyn laughed. “Ooh, this sounds spicy.”

I gestured to the bed. “Sit.”

“And I’ll be sitting? This just keeps getting better,” she said, settling in like she was about to be serenaded.

I ignored her and moved to the window, watching a bird peck at something unidentifiable. It looked lost. I could relate.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said. My version of DEFCON 1.

Bronwyn didn’t look up. “That’s nice.”

“No, seriously. About us.”

“Us? Oh, this could be very exciting.”

I turned. “I don’t think we should be an ‘us’ anymore.”

Bronwyn blinked. “Is this because I don’t like Star Trek and didn’t laugh at your quantum accounting joke?”

“That didn’t help,” I said. “Especially the Star Trek bit. But no—it’s bigger than that.”

She stared, waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, she frowned. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“I’m breaking up with the future,” I said. “And you’re in it.”

Bronwyn stood, arms folded. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve seen where this goes. Scam call centre. You flirting with Mike. Me—missing. Possibly dead. It’s not exactly a rom-com.”

Bronwyn scoffed. “You’re insane. If this is about that stupid portal of Albert’s, you’ve lost it. That wasn’t real. You were drunk. You hallucinated.”

“I stepped through a time portal, Bronwyn. I didn’t just dream up a dystopia.”

She paced. “So you’re dumping me over something that might happen?”

“No. I’m dumping you over something that already is.”

She stopped. “You’re making a mistake.”

I nodded. “I’ve made plenty. This one feels like the first correction.”

Bronwyn grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder like it owed her money. “Fine. But don’t come crawling back when you realise you’re just a lonely guy with a half-finished accounting degree and no one to watch Star Trek with.”

I smiled. “That’s the plan.”

She left without slamming the door, which felt like a missed opportunity. But then—she came back.

“You’ll regret this. No one dumps me. Especially not you, you hallucinating drunk dullard.”

And with that, she remembered to slam the door and stormed out for good.

I sat down, exhaled, and stared at the ceiling. It didn’t offer answers, but at least it didn’t argue.

Mum popped her head in. “Well, that went okay, dear?”

I nodded. “Better than expected.”

***

The rest of Sunday dissolved into a fog of self-reflection and low-grade panic. I had done it—finally. The breakup. I felt clean, like someone who’d just stepped out of a long, toxic shower. But the feeling didn’t last. Beneath the surface, there was a hollow ache. Renewal, yes. But also fear. And dread.

Even Mum, sharp as ever, knew better than to gloat. She kept her distance, letting me marinate in my own thoughts while she made quiet pilgrimages to the kitchen for tea and snacks. Occasionally, she’d pass my door and pause, but never linger. She knew this wasn’t the time for pep talks or passive-aggressive wisdom.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers. My mind spun with questions I couldn’t file away. Had I really changed the timeline? Was the future now a blank slate—or just a different brand of disaster?

What if both Bronwyns—past and future—joined forces to punish him? A tag-team of sarcasm and sweat. Worse still, what if I somehow ended up back with her? Married. Mortgage. Matching tracksuits. The thought made my stomach turn.

Could future Bronwyn return through the portal for revenge? Did she even exist anymore? And what about Mike, the furniture enthusiast? Was he erased, or just waiting in a showroom somewhere, polishing his intentions?

I marvelled at the power I’d wielded. A single decision, and the future bent around it. But the weight of that power disturbed me. What right did I have to rewrite reality? Was I playing hero—or just dodging accountability?

By Monday, I was a wreck. I hadn’t slept—just tossed and turned like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts. The idea of calling strangers about insurance felt absurd. I dialled my supervisor and mumbled something about a stomach bug. The supervisor sighed. Monday was always popular for sick leave. I held firm.

I sat at the kitchen table, staring into a mug of tea I hadn’t made. It was cold. I didn’t remember pouring it, which meant either I was losing time or Mum was quietly hydrating me like a neglected houseplant. Either way, it felt symbolic.

The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that amplifies every doubt.

I’d broken up with Bronwyn. That was good. That was necessary. But now I was single, unemployed for the day, and haunted by the image of my future self—missing, erased, or possibly curled up behind the Strange Science Museum with a blanket and a bottle.

A dark thought crept in: what if the call centre hired Bronwyn in my place? I shook it off. That was paranoia. Probably.

I tried to breathe. It came out shallow. My chest felt tight, like someone had parked a hatchback on it. Anxiety, I thought. Or guilt. Or just the weight of twenty years I hadn’t lived yet.

I wandered back to my room. The bed was still unmade from last night’s existential collapse. I lay down, fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling. It stared back, blank and indifferent.

What if I’d made the wrong choice? What if Bronwyn wasn’t the problem—what if I was? What if I was destined to mess things up, no matter the timeline?

I sat up, heart thudding. The walls felt closer. I needed air. Or answers. Or both.

Albert. Of course. Uncle Albert had built the portal. He’d understand. He’d have charts. Diagrams. Possibly snacks.

I grabbed my jacket—finally—and walked out the door.

***

I stepped off the bus and made my way through the university grounds, past the indifferent students and half-lit corridors, until I reached the physics department. I walked straight into Uncle Albert’s lab without so much as a swipe card or a raised eyebrow.

“So much for security,” I muttered. “Anyone could stroll in and take a leap through time. What’s to stop a rogue Bronwyn invasion?”

Inside, Uncle Albert was buried in a sea of papers, rifling through them like they owed him money.

“Raymond, my boy!” he called out, not looking up. “What a pleasant surprise. How’s your mother?”

“She’s fine, Uncle Albert.”

I hovered, unsure how to begin. Albert sensed it and gave me space to gather my thoughts.

“I’ve taken your advice,” I said finally. “I changed the timeline.”

Albert looked up, intrigued. “My advice? Well, I suppose I did say something vaguely philosophical. What did you do?”

“I broke up with Bronwyn.”

Albert nodded. “Good, good. But now you’re girlfriendless.”

“Yes, but you remember what I saw—twenty years down the line. I had to do it.”

“Well done, Raymond. So, do you have another candidate lined up?”

“No. Not yet. It’s still raw. I didn’t sleep last night. Couldn’t face work today.”

Albert sighed. “Ah, heartbreak and insomnia. The twin curses of progress. You’ll recover.”

I hesitated. “There’s more.”

Albert leaned in, sensing the shift. “Go on.”

“Bronwyn came back. The future one. She found me.”

Albert froze, his hand mid-shuffle. “She came back through the portal?”

“Saturday night. After the event.”

Albert’s eyes narrowed. “She must’ve slipped in through the lab. Doors can be opened from the inside. And I assume she returned?”

“I hope so,” I said. “She claimed she was working undercover for the police. A snitch. She begged me not to break up with Bronwyn.”

Albert blinked. “Why would she care?”

“She saw me at the call centre. Thought I’d overheard the scam. Wanted the timeline to stay intact.”

Albert rubbed his temples. “And how did she find the portal?”

“She followed me. Had help from a museum security guard. Trevor Blight.”

Albert sat up straighter. “Trevor Blight? I know that name. Nearly made it into our PhD program. Missed the cut-off by one mark. Ended up guarding exhibits instead of building them. Fascinating.”

I nodded. “Uncle Albert, I came here because I’m not okay.”

Albert softened. “Tell me.”

“It’s not Bronwyn. I’ll get over her. It’s the future. I’ve seen the worst-case scenario. I can’t sleep. I keep wondering what I’ve done. What happens to everyone in that timeline? What happens to me?”

Albert stood and walked over, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“You’ve been through a lot. Seeing your future can be... unpleasant. And Bronwyn’s visit? That’s the stuff of nightmares. But listen—through adversity comes opportunity. You may have caught your life just in time.”

I nodded, but my face was pale. “I’m still worried sick.”

Albert smiled gently. “Then there’s only one thing for it.”

I looked up. “What?”

“You need to go back. Step into the future again. See how it turned out. Get your clarity.”

I hesitated. “I don’t want to. I’m scared. But I don’t see another way.”

“Then it’s settled,” Albert said. “Would you like a snack first? I think I’ve got something edible in here.”

I chuckled weakly. “Sure. I’ve got my jacket this time.”

Albert pulled a scarf from beneath a stack of papers. “And take this. It’s ugly, but warm. Like most good decisions.”

I took it, heart pounding. The portal loomed in the corner, humming softly.

***

I stepped into the portal like a man walking into his own funeral—nervous, hopeful, and vaguely aware that someone might be serving sandwiches. I barely had time to brace myself before I collided with something solid. Not a wall. A person.

“Ah-ha! You again,” said the obstacle. “You must have a season pass to the museum.”

It was the security guard. Not particularly muscular, but proximity gave him the aura of a brick wall with opinions.

I blinked. “Sorry,” I said, sounding like a child caught stealing biscuits.

“Sorry?” he echoed. “I know all about your portal. What’s going on?”

“It’s Trevor, right?” I mumbled.

He squinted. “You know my name?”

“Bronwyn told me. Said you were... helpful.”

“Bronwyn?” His face twisted like he’d bitten into something sour. “Bronwyn who?”

“You know, the one from the call centre down the road.”

Trevor snorted. “Listen, mate. If you mean the woman who got charged with fraud, I’ve got nothing to do with her. Ran a scam operation out of some dodgy building nearby.”

That hit me like a wave—unexpected, but warm. I almost smiled. “Trevor, we need to talk.”

To my surprise, he nodded. “Sure. Come out back. I was just about to make tea. Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk,” I said, trying to sound like someone who hadn’t just time-travelled into a panic attack.

As we walked, Trevor explained he’d been cleaning up a mess in front of the portal—rotten fruit, soggy sandwich, the usual temporal debris. He’d just stood up when I barrelled into him.

“Nearly had a heart attack,” he said.

“Same,” I replied. “Though mine started last week.”

In his cramped office, Trevor handed me a mug and gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

“So,” he said, “what’s your story?”

“I came through the portal a few days ago—”

“I remember,” he cut in.

“I saw some things. Disturbing things. I made changes, but now I’m eaten alive wondering what those changes did.”

“So you came back to check the damage?”

“Exactly.”

Trevor nodded. “Makes sense. Time travel’s like DIY plumbing—seems clever until the ceiling collapses.”

I paused. “How do you know about the portal?”

“Twenty years ago, I was a uni student. Professor Bauford was working on some ‘project.’ We all thought it was a joke. A few of us snuck in to see it—looked like a door ripped off a submarine. Then life happened. I wanted a PhD but missed the mark. Ended up with a science degree and a job that pays in museum brochures.”

“So you never used the portal?”

“Hell no. I didn’t think it worked. But I was curious. That’s why I brought it here. I couldn’t believe Bauford spent so much time on something that looked like a prop from a bad sci-fi film.”

“Wait—you’re more than just a security guard?”

“Oh yeah. I was the original curator. Still am, technically. But museums don’t print money. So, I’m curator, guard, accountant, cleaner, and part-time philosopher.”

I nodded. “So, you’re definitely not connected to Bronwyn?”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “Actually—hold on.”

He rummaged through his desk and pulled out a newspaper. “This is the one.”

There she was—Bronwyn, twenty years older, smiling in her mugshot like she’d just won Employee of the Month at a Ponzi scheme. The headline read: “Former CEO Bronwyn Abercrombie Under Investigation for Multi-Million-Dollar Scam Ring.”

“The call centre’s abandoned,” Trevor said, flipping the paper closed. “She vanished after the charges. Probably reinvented herself. That’s what scammers do—new name, new haircut, same lies.”

I swallowed. “Trevor... do you know if she was married?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I believe not. But she had an accomplice—Mike. Rumour was he was her significant other. He’s gone too, apparently.”

I stared at the closed paper. Relief washed over me like a warm bath drawn by someone who didn’t want me dead. I’d done it. I’d severed the timeline. No marriage. No scam empire. No matching tracksuits.

But then the dread crept back in—slow, deliberate, and wearing wool. What if she blamed me? What if she came back?

“Trevor,” I said, exhaling, “can you help me find out what happened to me?”

“You haven’t even told me who you are.”

So I did. The whole story. Portal, Bronwyn, Albert, the breakup, the anxiety. Trevor listened, eyebrows raised, tea cooling in his hands.

“You’re Bauford’s nephew?” he said. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“I’d appreciate your help,” I said.

“I’ll help,” Trevor replied. “But I want something in return.”

Here it comes, I thought.

“I want you to ask your uncle to get me into a PhD program.”

I blinked. “That’s... specific.”

“Just one mark short, Ray. One mark. Surely Albert can pull a few strings.”

I hesitated. “I’ll ask. But I can’t promise anything.”

Trevor nodded. “Fair enough. Just try. I’ve been stuck in this timeline long enough.”

I paused. “Wouldn’t that change your current life? If you got into the PhD program twenty years ago?”

“That’s the plan.”

“So... you might not exist as you are now?”

Trevor shrugged. “I’ve met me. I can do better.”

I smiled. “Alright. I’ll talk to Uncle Albert.”

“You absolutely promise?”

“Yes,” I said, fingers crossed behind my back.

“Good,” Trevor said, standing. “Now let’s find out what happened to you.”

I was dumbfounded—again. It was becoming a regular state of being, like caffeine dependency or mild existential dread. Thank God for Trevor: a man with a science degree and a bucket full of half-baked brilliance.

“Alright,” he said, with the confidence of someone who’d just solved a crossword clue. “Let’s try the obvious.”

“And what’s that?” I asked, clueless but curious.

“Your house,” he said, as if it were the punchline to a joke I’d missed.

I tilted my head. “My house?”

“Think about it,” he continued. “You’re not married – that we know of. Odds are, you’re still living at home. No offence.”

“None taken,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure. “But yeah, makes sense. Let’s try it.”

“You still remember where you live—or lived?”

“Ah, yes. Unless Mum’s moved. Or I’ve moved. Or we’ve both moved and left a forwarding address to nowhere.”

Then the thought hit me—Mum. Twenty years older. Would she still be alive? The idea twisted in my gut. But this was the mission now. I’d signed up for it.

“Right then,” Trevor said, clapping his hands like we were off to buy milk. “Let’s scoot. I’ve got my car out back.”

***

Outside the museum, winter reminded me it hadn’t gone anywhere. Not as brutal as my last night-time visit, but still cold enough to make me grateful for my jacket and the dusty scarf that smelled faintly of mothballs and guilt. My mood matched the weather—sombre, grey, and vaguely literary. The Winter of Our Discontent, I thought. Steinbeck would’ve approved.

Trevor’s car was a relic. Getting inside felt like escaping the icy tendrils of time itself. Unfortunately, Trevor drove like a grandmother with vertigo—cautious, slow, and seemingly allergic to acceleration.

“Lucky we’re only just out of town,” I muttered. “Otherwise, I’d arrive twenty years older.”

I chuckled to myself. “This is Trevor’s time portal.”

“What was that?” Trevor asked, eyes on the road like it might bite him.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just... I’m anxious. What do I say to Mum?”

“Nothing, dummy. If she’s still alive, do you want to give her a heart attack?”

I shook my head.

“Then stay in the car. This isn’t a family reunion. There’s already one Ray moping around the countryside. She doesn’t need a younger, time-travelled version knocking on her door.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, deflated.

“I’m always right,” he replied, smug.

“What are you going to say?”

“I’ll tell her I was an old mate. Met you through Uncle Albert.”

“That could work,” I said. “We’d have been about the same age twenty years ago.” That sounded weird as soon as I said it.

“Exactly,” Trevor nodded. “Now, where’s this place?”

Surprisingly, not much had changed. The streets were familiar. Buildings mostly the same, just a few new ones trying to look important. The people were the only real difference.

“There it is,” I said, louder than intended. The house looked older. Smaller. Like it had been quietly shrinking under the weight of time.

Trevor parked a few houses down.

“Alright. I won’t be long. Stay put. I’ll find out where you are.”

“Okay. And Trevor... can you tell her—no, never mind. You’re right. Anything from this version of me won’t help.”

“Good boy,” he said, stepping out and crossing the street.

I watched him ring the bell, then knock. Eventually, the door opened. Mum. Older. Frail. My heart twisted. Twenty years. Just twenty years, and she looked like time had been chewing on her.

She let Trevor in without hesitation. Maybe the old pal story worked. Or maybe she was just lonely.

I waited. Minutes stretched into half an hour. Then an hour. I was ready to burst out of the car when the door finally opened and Trevor emerged, moving at his usual glacial pace.

He climbed into the driver’s seat like he’d just picked up milk from the corner store.

“Well?” I blurted. “What did she say? Is she okay? Where am I? Why so long?”

“Whoa, boy. Hold your horses. You’ll get it all. Sit back.”

Trevor started the car and pulled away.

“First off—your mum’s alright. Older, yes. But she gets help once a week. Still sharp. Still herself.”

“Thank God,” I said.

“She was happy to reminisce. Thought I was working under Albert at the university.”

“You told her that?”

“Why not? It worked. Oh—and Albert passed a few years ago. Sorry, Ray.”

My heart sank. But it made sense. He’d been getting on even back then. I didn’t blame him for not jumping through the portal. What was the point? Sometimes it’s better to enjoy what you have than chase what might kill you.

“Thanks, Trevor,” I said quietly. “What about me?”

“You’re a bit of a mystery. You lived at home for a while, looked after your mum. She said you left about ten years ago. Mentioned you had ‘concerns’ about the area.”

“Concerns?”

“She wasn’t specific. Just vague hints. Something she didn’t want to say. There were problems at the call centre. Investigations.”

I felt a chill. I said nothing.

“She said you quit and started accountancy training again.”

That was better. “So I wasn’t caught up in anything?”

“She says no. Was adamant. But she’s your mum—of course she’d say that.”

“Where did I go?”

“That’s where she got cagey. Said you were ‘doing other things.’”

“Other things? What does that even mean?”

“No idea.”

“Do I visit her?”

“She says you stay in touch. But I got the sense she was holding back.”

My thoughts spiralled. Had I vanished? Been erased by timeline instability? A failed experiment? Was my future not just unpleasant—but non-existent?

“Oh, come on,” Trevor said. “You’re still contaminating the planet. We’re not done yet. I promised I’d help. Your mum was just the first checkpoint.”

His words were comforting, but my mind wouldn’t stop racing. Maybe my future self had chosen to disappear. Maybe to protect the timeline. Maybe to escape Bronwyn.

We drove back to the museum in silence; the car filled with questions neither of us could answer.

***

I jumped out of the car, ready to dive into the next phase of Trevor’s plan. Trevor, naturally, took his usual slow-motion stroll toward the museum, like time was something he could negotiate with. I stood outside, shivering in the wind, which had regained its icy bite. My jacket was barely adequate, and the scarf around my neck had seen better decades.

Eventually, Trevor unlocked the side door and led me back to his office—a shrine to forgotten tech and half-finished ideas. Dusty cables hung like vines from shelves, and a stack of old journals leaned precariously beside a taxidermied owl that looked like it had died of boredom.

Trevor, ever the host, brewed another cup of tea. I took mine and sat across from him, sipping something that tasted faintly of disinfectant and dread—but at least it was hot.

“All right,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s find the ghost of Ray Bauford.”

I nodded, unsure whether I wanted to be found.

Trevor fired up his ancient computer and began digging—university records, alumni databases, tax filings, social media. The results were underwhelming. A blog called Temporal Drift, last updated fifteen years ago, filled with cryptic ramblings about causality and regret. A blurry photo from a reunion—possibly me, possibly a coat rack. A tax record with my name, but no address.

“Not exactly a digital footprint,” Trevor muttered. “More like a toeprint.”

I was sinking deeper into a winter depression. No matter how determined Trevor was, there was nothing here that would lead us to me in the now.

“There’s nothing here,” I said, despondent.

“But we’ve only just started, Ray. Chin up.” Trevor continued to trawl through old records, hopping from one to the next via inconsiderately slow computer links.

I’d finished my tea, and it was beginning to rumble in my stomach. Maybe I needed food. My thoughts drifted to Bronwyn. I hoped she hadn’t done anything untoward to me. Just as I was sinking to my lowest ebb, Trevor sat bolt upright like he’d been electrocuted.

I leaned in. On the screen, something had surfaced—a requisition form buried in the university archives, dated five years ago. Signed: R. Bauford. It was for lab equipment—nothing dramatic, except for the handwritten note in the margin:

“If this works, no one will remember me. That’s the point.”

I stared. “That’s my handwriting.”

Trevor leaned back. “You erased yourself.”

“Is that what it means? Why would I do that?”

“Maybe you saw something worse than Bronwyn’s scam empire. Maybe you tried to fix it.”

The room tilted slightly. “Where was the equipment sent?”

Trevor tapped the screen. Nothing. He tried a couple of buried links. “Ah-ha. Storage Unit 47B. Off campus. Been locked for years, no doubt.”

I sat back, the pieces clicking into place. Uncle Albert had passed away five years ago. The timing matched. He must’ve left the equipment to me—his final act of trust, or maybe a quiet warning. The portal, the gear, the note... it was all part of the inheritance. A legacy wrapped in wires and consequences.

***

The storage facility was the kind of place where dreams went to gather dust. Corrugated metal walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and a faint smell of mildew gave it the charm of a forgotten filing cabinet. I unlocked Unit 47B with a key Trevor had “borrowed” from the museum’s master set. He lingered outside, keeping watch in case one of his security cousins decided to get ambitious. They didn’t. No one cared about the relics of a life boxed up and left to fade.

Inside: a desk, a chair, and a few cardboard containers stacked like neglected tombstones. No glowing tech. No swirling vortex. Just the quiet hum of forgotten ambition.

I stepped in slowly, like the room might bite. On the desk sat a journal—leather-bound, cracked at the edges. I opened it. My heart skipped a few beats.

“To the Ray who couldn’t sleep— You were right to worry. But you were also right to change. I had to disappear to make it work. Don’t come looking for me. Just live. —You.”

I sat down, heart thudding. The handwriting was unmistakable. The tone—mine, but older. Wiser. Tired. It was like reading a letter from a version of myself who’d seen too much and decided to step off the ride.

Trevor hovered in the doorway. “Well, that’s one way to ghost yourself.”

I nodded slowly. “He didn’t vanish. He stepped out.”

“Out of time?”

“Out of the way.” I paused, then added, “You know, Trevor... I think I’m done searching.”

I sat down, heart refusing to settle into a moderate beat. I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. So I did neither.

Trevor walked in and picked up a photo from the desk. It was me—young, hopeful—standing beside Uncle Albert, both of us grinning like we’d just built something illegal and were proud of it.

“You know,” Trevor said, “I always thought Albert was mad. But maybe he was just early.”

I smiled faintly. “He’s both.”

Trevor turned the photo over. On the back, in Albert’s unmistakable scrawl, was a note:

“Ray— If you find this, it means you’ve made the leap. The portal was never the point. It was the choice. I built the machine, but you built the future. —Albert”

I swallowed hard. Albert hadn’t just left me gear. He’d left me a philosophy. A quiet nudge toward agency. Toward rewriting the script.

Trevor glanced at the boxes. “Want to see what else he left?”

We opened them together. Old schematics. A few tools. A sealed envelope marked Penny Wright. I held it like it might explode. Inside was a letter. Short. Direct.

“Penny— If Ray ever finds this, tell him the truth. He didn’t disappear. He chose to protect the timeline. And you. —R.”

I stared at the note. The air felt heavier.

Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve got a visit to make.”

“Yes. Let’s add a visit to Penny to the itinerary,” I said. “I need to find her. I don’t really know why... but it feels like closure.”

Trevor nodded. “Alright. I suppose I’ve bought into this now. You ready?”

“No,” I replied. “But I’m going anyway. I think it’s time I found someone who remembers me.”

***

With a cocktail of eager anticipation and low-grade dread swirling in my chest, I slid back into Trevor’s car. He followed, moving with the urgency of a man returning from a leisurely stroll through molasses.

As soon as we were seated, a thought struck me. “Hey Trevor, where exactly are we going? Do you even know how to find Penny?”

“Of course,” he said, as if I’d asked whether water was wet. “She’s head of the physics department at the university.”

“Head of physics?” I raised an eyebrow. “Penny?”

“Yep. She got her master’s in both physics and business administration. Perfect combo. Makes her far more qualified than those crusty old academics who still think chalkboards are cutting-edge.”

I nodded. “Fair point.”

Trevor kept talking. “I’ve stayed in touch. She sends over the occasional science oddity for the museum. Last month, I got a magnetic spoon that repels soup.”

“How long’s she been in charge?”

“Five years, give or take. Your uncle Albert gave her a glowing reference before he passed. Said she was the only one who understood the portal without trying to dismantle it for parts.”

“So she knows all about the portal?” I asked.

“That’s what I understand,” Trevor replied. “In fact, Albert probably filled her in on your shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans?”

“Yes. You know—your trips through the portal,” said Trevor.

“Wow. He must’ve really trusted her,” I said.

We cruised through the suburbs at a pace that could generously be described as geological. Trevor was lost in his own thoughts, and I was tangled in mine—mostly about Penny.

Would she remember me? She hadn’t mentioned me to Trevor, at least not that he’d said. Did she know anything about my older self? Had they stayed in touch? The questions spun around my head like a malfunctioning ceiling fan. Or maybe that was just the lack of food.

Then another thought hit me—one that should’ve landed hours ago.

“Trevor... Penny never got the letter. She’s probably been living with questions I could’ve answered. And now I’m the answer she didn’t expect.”

Trevor glanced over. “Very profound, Ray. Almost poetic. So she never received it. What does she know? That’s what we need to find out.”

I nodded slowly. “Albert must’ve kept the letter in the storage unit, hoping I’d find it myself. Maybe it was a contingency plan—‘If Ray ever returns, give this to Penny.’ Or maybe he passed before he could deliver it.”

“Sounds about right,” Trevor said. “Albert was always a few steps ahead, but never in a straight line.”

I stared out the window. “So what does Penny know? She might’ve known I disappeared. Maybe even suspected I was involved in something bigger—especially if she worked with Albert on the portal. She could have theories. But no proof. The letter would be her first confirmation that my disappearance wasn’t random—it was deliberate.”

Trevor nodded, eyes fixed on the road like it might suddenly vanish. “Exactly why we need to talk to her.”

The car rolled on, slow and steady, like it was building suspense on purpose. The university loomed ahead, and with it, the woman who might hold the missing pieces of my fractured timeline.

***

The physics department hadn’t changed much. Same linoleum floors, same flickering lights, same smell of burnt coffee, half-baked experiments, and ambition. I walked beside Trevor, clutching the envelope like it might dissolve if exposed to daylight.

Penny Wright’s office was tucked at the end of a long corridor, behind a heavy door with a plaque that read Penny Wright, Head of Department. The kind of title that deserved a cape and a theme song.

Trevor knocked gently.

“Come in,” said a voice—sharp, clear, unmistakably hers.

I stepped inside.

Penny looked up from her desk. Her blonde hair, now streaked with silver, was pulled into a loose bun. Glasses perched halfway down her nose. She froze. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, scanning my face like a puzzle she’d been warned about but never expected to solve.

“Ray?” she whispered.

I nodded. “Hi, Penny.”

She stood slowly, like I might vanish if she blinked too hard. “You’re... younger than I expected.”

“I get that a lot,” I said. “Time travel. It’s a whole thing.”

She didn’t smile. Not yet. “Albert told me this might happen. Said you had a habit of stepping sideways through time when things got complicated.”

“He wasn’t wrong.”

“I thought you were gone. Dead, maybe. Or just... folded into the timeline.”

“I thought I was too.”

She studied me, eyes flicking between recognition and disbelief. “So this is the younger version, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Apparently so,” I said. “Still under warranty.”

Trevor cleared his throat. “I’ll wait outside.”

Penny nodded absently, still staring at me like I was a living footnote in a chapter she’d never finished.

Penny eventually gestured to the chair across from her desk. Words were building behind her eyes, but none made it out. I sat. The envelope felt heavier now.

“I found something,” I said, placing it on her desk. “It’s from Uncle Albert. For you.”

She picked it up with trembling hands, opened it, and read silently. Her eyes welled, but she didn’t cry. Penny was too composed for that.

“He never told me,” she said quietly. “He said you might return one day. That you’d be younger. That I should be ready.”

I blinked. “He said that?”

She nodded. “Albert was cryptic, but he trusted me. He said you were trying to fix something. That you’d need someone who remembered.”

“I didn’t vanish,” I said. “I stepped out.”

“What does that mean?”

“Good question. I think I chose to live in the margins—where my presence wouldn’t distort what needed to unfold.”

Penny leaned forward. “Why?”

“My best guess? I wanted to give my younger self a chance. I saw what was coming—Bronwyn, the scam, the call centre. I couldn’t be part of it. I thought if I removed myself, maybe the timeline would bend differently.”

“And did it?”

I shrugged. “I think so. But I don’t know what I broke in the process. It wasn’t just about Bronwyn. My older self saw the trajectory and decided to intervene—not just by ending things with her, but by removing his influence entirely. He didn’t disappear. He opted out.”

“How?”

“Maybe I changed my name. Moved away. Avoided everyone who knew me. Left breadcrumbs—like the requisition form—but nothing traceable. I became a ghost by design.”

Penny leaned back, absorbing it. “It fits. Albert used to say the portal wasn’t about travel—it was about choice. He believed we could rewrite ourselves. He just never said how much it would cost.”

I nodded. “I didn’t realise how much I’d lose. Mum barely remembers me. I’m a ghost in my own life.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I regret not looking harder. I thought you’d made your choice. I didn’t want to interfere.”

“You didn’t,” I said. “But maybe you should have.”

She smiled faintly. “We all should have. Albert left breadcrumbs. We just didn’t follow them.”

I glanced around her office—books, diagrams, a photo of Albert on the shelf. “Do you still work on the portal?”

“Not officially,” she said. “But I’ve kept the research alive. Quietly. Trevor has the original at the museum, I assume that’s the one you used. But I’ve built a Mark II. It’s in the lab. I’m not sure I want to use it.”

I stood. “I want to help. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore, but I think I need to find out.”

Penny nodded. “Then let’s start again. From here.”

Trevor poked his head in. “Everything alright?”

“Better than expected,” I said.

Penny smiled. “Welcome back, Ray.”

“Thanks, Penny. But the downside is—I don’t belong in this timeline. There’s another me out there, doing who knows what. He’s given me room to move, and I feel like I need to dance.”

“So what’s the plan?” she asked.

“I think I need to go back. Make a few more changes.”

Penny’s smile faded. “I see.”

I hesitated. “Tell me about you. You’ve done well.”

“Thanks, Ray. I often think back to when you first came to the university on open day. I enjoyed your company, though my duties kept me busy. I was a little disappointed you had a girlfriend.”

I blushed. “Thanks, Penny.”

“I was working in admin then. Feeling sorry for myself. Lonely. That’s when I decided to do a master’s in science and business. You were the spark, Ray. I had nothing else to get excited about.”

“And now?”

“I’m sitting on top of the physics department pile. But there’s no one to share it with.”

“You never married?” I asked, hope bouncing around in my chest.

“No.”

I felt a pang of regret. My older self should’ve seen her. Should’ve known. But I was too tangled in my own mess to consider happiness—mine or hers. Now, this younger version of me wasn’t in a position to woo a woman like Penny. This only reinforced my need to return. I had an agenda now. I had ideas.

Trevor broke the silence. “Alright, you two. Life’s for living, and the melancholy’s getting thick in here. Ray, maybe we should get moving and let Penny run her department.”

I nodded, though leaving felt like tearing a page from a book mid-sentence. “Penny, I’m glad I found you. You’ve helped me more than you know. I think I’ll be okay now.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Maybe in your timeline, you’ll have time to come and see me.”

That was music to my ears. “I will, Penny. That’s a promise.”

My mind spun. The timeline would shift again when I returned. But that’s what living does—every choice plants the seeds of a new future. My heart ached for this Penny, but my mind was set on rewriting the script.

She came around the desk and hugged me. “Thanks again, Ray. I truly hope we meet again.”

“You will, Penny.”

She kissed me.

Trevor groaned. “Alright, you two. The age gap’s getting uncomfortable.”

We broke our embrace, and I exited with a final wave.

***

Trevor’s car wheezed back into motion like it had just been guilted into participating. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, mind racing faster than the engine ever could.

“I think I’ve got a plan,” I said.

Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Does it involve doughnuts and coffee? Because I’m low on blood sugar and patience.”

“No doughnuts. Just time travel.”

“Ah,” he said. “The usual.”

We drove in silence for a while, the suburbs blurring past in a haze of beige and nostalgia. I was thinking about the portal. About Albert. About the version of me who’d stepped out and left behind breadcrumbs like a philosophical Hansel.

“I need to go back,” I said. “Not to escape. To edit.”

Trevor glanced over. “You’re talking like a novelist with a red pen and a God complex.”

“Close enough.”

Back at the museum, the portal sat in its corner like a retired superhero—quiet, unassuming, but still humming with potential. Trevor untied the velvet rope and flicked on the display lights. The room buzzed to life.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, pacing. “Albert didn’t build this to run away. He built it to give us options. To test the elasticity of fate.”

Trevor nodded. “And you want to stretch it until it snaps?”

“Not snap. Just... reshape.”

I pulled out the journal from the storage unit and flipped to a page I hadn’t noticed before. A diagram. A sequence. A note:

“If Ray returns, he must choose wisely. The portal doesn’t erase—it amplifies.”

I stared at it. “Amplifies?”

Trevor leaned in. “Maybe it doesn’t just send you back. Maybe it magnifies the consequences of your choices. Like karma with a jetpack.”

I grinned. “That’s comforting.”

We began prepping the portal, which was nothing more than Trevor placing his hand on the metal frame to check for vibration.

“Yes,” he exclaimed. “Looks like there’s enough charge for a return trip. Well—maybe halfway, at least.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, Trevor,” I replied dryly.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

“No. But I’m going anyway.”

“Now, you’ll remember our little deal, I trust?”

“Of course, Trevor. I would’ve done it gladly for you anyway. I really appreciate what you’ve done for me here. I’m kind of looking forward to meeting your more handsome self.”

“All right, but don’t be jealous of my good looks and high intelligence,” he quipped. Then he handed me my scarf. “You’ll need this. It’s ugly, but warm. Kind of reminds me of you.”

I stepped toward the portal. The hum grew louder. The air shimmered.

“Any last words?” Trevor asked.

“Yeah. If I come back wearing a toga and speaking Latin, just roll with it.”

He saluted. “Godspeed, time janitor.”

I stepped in.

***

The portal spat me out with all the grace of a malfunctioning vending machine. One moment I was shimmering in possibility, the next I was standing in Albert’s laboratory—slightly dizzy, mildly electrified, and smelling faintly of ozone.

Albert looked up from his desk, glasses perched on his nose, surrounded by his usual fortress of papers and half-drunk mugs of tea. He didn’t flinch.

“Ah,” he said. “You made it back. Good.”

“You knew I would?”

“I suspected. You’ve always had a flair for unfinished business.”

I stepped inside, unsure whether to hug him or interrogate him. I settled for sitting.

“Well then, my boy,” he said, steepling his fingers. “Let’s get to it. What have you been up to?”

“Uncle Albert, I stumbled across a myriad of things—some dismal, some bright, and some downright perplexing.”

“Go on,” he said, leaning back.

“There was a bit of everything and everyone in the future. Mum, Penny, Trevor Blight... and of course, you.”

“Ah, my favourite subject,” Albert chuckled.

I told him the story as best I could, skimming over the part where he’d passed away. I mentioned the storage unit, the journal, the letter. He didn’t ask about his future self—he was smart enough to know. And kind enough not to press.

“Uncle Albert, I’m worried,” I blurted. “What happens to Penny? To Trevor? If I change the timeline again?”

Albert placed a hand on my shoulder. “Raymond, you’re fretting over something that hasn’t happened yet. Remember—you bounced forward twenty years. That future was built on choices already made.”

He gave my shoulder a reassuring pat. “It hasn’t happened, my boy. Not yet.”

“But Uncle Albert—”

“Hold on. Hear me out,” he said, raising a finger. “The Penny you met may not be the Penny of twenty years from now. She could be anything. That’s up to her now, in this timeline. You saw a future based on what was. But believe me—there’s more to come. What you do from here will shape what’s next. Nothing’s set in stone.”

I let that settle. “I suppose you’re right.”

Then another thought struck me. “Uncle Albert, can you help Trevor? Get him into a PhD program?”

Albert scratched his chin. “Hmm... that’s a tough one. Even if I could find someone to vouch for him, there aren’t any open projects.”

“What if he works with you? Something around the portal?”

Albert closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. “You may be onto something, Raymond. But would he go for a crazy professor nearing retirement?”

“I think he would,” I said. “You’ve got no other students. He’d be perfect.”

Albert smiled. “Alright. I’ll draw up a plan. I’ll funnel some of my academic allowance into a project for him.”

I grinned. “Excellent. That would mean a lot.”

We talked for a while—about the portal, about timelines, about the philosophical weight of stepping out. Albert was calm, as always. Like time was just another variable to be managed, preferably with a cup of lukewarm tea and a well-sharpened pencil.

Still, something was gnawing at the back of my mind.

“I’m not sure I understand everything that’s happened, Uncle Albert. Why all the ambiguity? The mystery? Yes, there were breadcrumbs, but they didn’t exactly lead to a neatly labelled conclusion. I wish it were all black and white.”

Albert laughed and slapped my back—just a shade harder than necessary. “Raymond, who said you need to understand everything? What fun would that be? Mystery is the seasoning of life. It’s what keeps you awake at night, staring at the ceiling and questioning your existence. Delicious, isn’t it?”

I raised an eyebrow. “So, I’m supposed to enjoy being confused?”

“Not enjoy,” he said, grinning. “Endure with style. All you really need to understand is what’s happening in your current timeline—and more importantly, what you’re going to do about it. You’re the master of your own destiny, whether you like it or not.”

I nodded. “You’re probably right. Again.”

“I usually am,” he said. “But I’m glad you’re here to confirm it.”

“And I’m glad I have you, Uncle Albert.”

“And I’m glad I have you, Raymond. Even if you do keep rearranging the fabric of reality like it’s your sock drawer.”

When I stood to leave, he gave me a look that felt like a benediction—equal parts wisdom and mischief.

“Try not to break anything,” he said. “Especially yourself.

***

I stepped out into the corridor, still absorbing Albert’s words, when I nearly collided with someone rounding the corner.

“Ray?” said a voice—familiar, warm, and just a little stunned.

It was Penny.

She looked younger than the version I’d met in the future—less silver in her hair, more light in her eyes. And somehow, impossibly, more radiant than I remembered. Her gaze scanned me like she was checking for signs of paradox.

I knew that future Penny didn’t technically exist. But I could still feel her kiss. That was real. I tried not to blush. I failed.

“I thought you might show up,” she said. “Albert told me you’d broken up with Bronwyn. I hope you’re doing okay.”

“She’s in the past now,” I said. “I’m... recalibrating. Trying to find my way in this timeline.”

She smiled. “Still poetic, Ray. Are you succeeding?”

“I think I am. Things are looking up already.”

We walked together down the corridor. She told me about her work, about the university’s adult matriculation program—how they were helping people restart their lives, re-educate, reimagine.

“You’d fit right in,” she said. “You’ve already done the hard part—stepping out.”

I laughed. “I’m not sure I qualify. I’ve got a few timelines under my belt, but no formal training.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” she said. “You don’t need credentials to start again. Just intent.”

“Penny, I wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

“Oh yes you would, Ray. It’s free. A community service, technically. You’ll need a couple of textbooks, a few pens, and a willingness to show up. Evening classes. Flexible hours. You could keep working.”

“That’s sounding right up my alley,” I said with a smile. “But seriously—if I matriculate and get accepted into a course, how do I pay for it?”

“Like every other normal person,” she said. “Go into debt.”

I nodded. “Comforting.”

We reached the courtyard. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the stone. Penny was a breath of fresh summer air—no one had ever been so positive and so quietly supportive of me.

“Penny,” I said, suddenly unsure of myself. “Would you... I mean, could we maybe—”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me on a date, Ray?”

“I think I am.”

She smiled. “Good. I was hoping you would.”

Epilogue: A Ray of Sunshine

Several months have passed since my last foray into winter. I still get the occasional chill just thinking about it. Summer’s gone, but autumn is cushioning the descent into colder days. Not that I mind—winter doesn’t scare me anymore. I’ve got the beginnings of a new life to keep me warm.

There’s something profound I’ve learned: You don’t need to leap into the future to know you’re going to have a good one—the signs are already here. You just need to open your eyes. Turns out, living in the present isn’t just good advice—it’s the only way to catch something wonderful before it passes you by.

I’m dating Penny. I’m besotted. And I think it’s mutual, which is always helpful in a relationship. I’ve enrolled in the Adult Matriculation Business course at the university and—surprise—I love it. Looks like I’m finally following in Dad’s footsteps, minus the brief detour through existential crisis and temporal dislocation.

I’ve quit the call centre (good riddance) and now work at the university. Penny’s doing a full-time double master’s in science and business administration—because of course she is. She’s only part-time in the physics department now, which means yours truly has picked up a part-time admin role. The academics call me their “new administration girl.” I pray nightly: Please, God, don’t let me become an academic. I’ve seen what tenure does to people.

Trevor’s working with Uncle Albert now. I run into him most days, though he doesn’t know me from a bar of soap. Still, I’m glad he’s on a better trajectory. He deserves it.

Bronwyn, meanwhile, has landed a job at the call centre. Maybe she’s laying the groundwork for her future scam empire. Or maybe she’s just answering phones. Either way, that chapters closed. I’m not in her story anymore.

Uncle Albert’s logic was spot on: the keys to a happy life are right in front of you. You don’t need to jump into the future to find them. Well—except for one key. That one I had to travel twenty years forward to discover.

While Trevor was showing me Bronwyn the felon on page two of the newspaper, the front-page headline caught my eye as he folded it shut: “Artificial Intelligence shares hit a world record high.” So what am I to do? Buy up every AI share I can afford in this timeline, of course. In twenty years, I’ll be relatively well off. And yes, I checked—it’s probably legal.

Mum’s started introducing me to her friends again as “her little Ray of sunshine.” I’m not sure if I prefer Raymond, but I’ll take the compliment. I’m just glad she’s proud of me. And that she likes where I’m heading.

Recently, I rediscovered the song Time from Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. I used to get despondent hearing: “One day you find ten years have got behind you. No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.” But now I listen through to the reprise: “Home, home again. I like to be here when I can. When I come home cold and tired, it’s good to warm my bones beside the fire.” That line never made sense to me before. Now it does. Good old Dad.

And the final words of the song? “The time is gone, the song is over, thought I’d something more to say.” Turns out—I do.

The End