The Time Traveller (Part Three)

A chill ran down my spine. 'What fire?'

'A terrible tragedy,' he said. 'Two cottages burned to the ground. A young girl died.'

I thought of Emily, of her desperate search for the watercolour. 'Was the girl's name Emily?' I asked.

Simmington shook his head. 'No. Her name was Charlotte. Emily was her sister.'

The pieces began to fall into place. 'And Emily is trying to change what happened,' I said. 'She's trying to save her sister.'

Joanna looked between us, confusion evident on her face. 'What on earth are you two talking about?'

Simmington ignored her question. 'Yes,' he said to me. 'And that's why I must find her. History cannot be altered. The consequences would be catastrophic.'

'But surely saving a child's life—'

'Would create ripples through time that would affect countless other lives,' he interrupted firmly. 'Emily doesn't understand the damage she could cause.'

The doorbell rang for the third time that evening.

Joanna sighed. 'We're certainly popular tonight.'

I rose to answer it, my mind racing. When I opened the door, Emily stood there, her eyes wild, her clothes different from earlier – older, more formal.

'You have them, don't you?' she said without preamble. 'The photographs. I can feel them.'

'Emily,' I said, 'Professor Simmington is here.'

Her face paled. '

'Simmington?' Emily's voice was barely a whisper. 'He's here?'

Before I could answer, Simmington appeared in the hallway behind me. 'Emily,' he said, his voice gentle but firm. 'You must stop this. You know the rules.'

Emily's eyes darted between us, like a cornered animal seeking escape. 'Give me the photographs,' she pleaded, looking at me. 'Please. You don't understand what's at stake.'

'I think I do,' I said. 'Your sister, Charlotte. The fire in 1861.'

Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with suspicion. 'What has he told you?'

'Only that you're trying to change history,' I replied. 'That you want to save her?'

'And is that so wrong?' she demanded, her voice rising. 'To save an innocent child?'

Simmington stepped forward. 'Emily, we've discussed this. The consequences—'

'I don't care about your consequences!' she cried. 'She was eight years old, Professor. Eight! And I was supposed to be watching her.'

Joanna appeared in the hallway, drawn by the commotion. 'What's going on?'

Emily's gaze fell on her, and something like recognition flickered across her face. 'Joanna?'

My wife frowned. 'Do I know you?'

A tense silence filled the hall. Emily looked between Joanna and me, then back to Simmington, her expression unreadable.

'May I come in?' Emily asked finally. 'I think we all need to talk.'

I nodded and stepped aside. As Emily passed me, I caught a faint scent of smoke and something else – a strange, metallic odour that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

We gathered in the living room, an odd quartet. Joanna perched on the edge of her armchair, clearly bewildered. Simmington stood by the fireplace, his posture rigid. Emily sat on the sofa, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. I remained standing; the photographs clutched in my hand.

'Perhaps you should explain, Emily,' Simmington said. 'The truth, this time.'

Emily took a deep breath. 'I am from Selly Oak,' she began. 'But not the Selly Oak, you know. I was born there in 1843.'

Joanna made a small, disbelieving sound.

'In 1861, when I was eighteen, our house caught fire,' Emily continued, her voice steady despite the pain evident in her eyes. 'My sister Charlotte was trapped inside. I tried to save her, but... I couldn't reach her. The smoke, the heat...' She faltered.

'It wasn't your fault,' Simmington said softly.

Emily ignored him. 'Something happened to me that night. As the roof collapsed, I felt a... a shift. Suddenly, I was standing outside, watching the fire from a distance. But it wasn't 1861 anymore. It was 1905.'

'The photograph,' I murmured, looking at the image of the woman with the pram.

Emily nodded. 'I didn't understand what had happened. I wandered for days, confused, frightened. Then I shifted again – to 1947, then 1982, then 2010. Back and forth through time, never in control, never staying long enough to make sense of it.'

'Until you met Professor Simmington,' I guessed.

'Yes,' she said. 'James found me in 2027. He explained what I was – a temporal anomaly, created by the trauma of that night. He helped me understand my... condition.'

'I'm a researcher in quantum displacement theory,' Simmington explained. 'Emily's case is unique. She exists outside normal temporal constraints, moving between time periods seemingly at random.'

'But not entirely random,' Emily interjected. 'I'm drawn to certain points, certain places. And to certain people.' Her gaze lingered on Joanna.

My wife shifted uncomfortably. 'I don't understand what this has to do with me.'

Emily smiled sadly. 'You wouldn't. Not yet.' She turned to me. 'The photographs are anchors, as James explained. They help me control the shifts, stay in one time long enough to... to make changes.'

'To save Charlotte,' I said.

'Yes,' she admitted. 'I've tried before, many times. But without the anchors, I can't stay long enough. I get pulled away just as I reach her.'

Simmington stepped forward. 'What Emily doesn't understand is that she can't change what happened. The past is fixed. Her attempts to alter it are creating dangerous temporal instabilities.'

'That's your theory,' Emily said bitterly. 'You don't know for certain.'

'I know enough to recognise the signs,' he countered. 'The temporal fractures are growing worse with each attempt. Eventually, they could collapse the entire continuum.'

'I think he's right, Emily,' I said gently. 'Some things can't be changed, no matter how much we wish they could.'

She looked at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. 'Would you say that if it were your child? Your sister? Would you accept it so easily?'

I had no answer for that.

Joanna, who had been silent during this exchange, suddenly spoke. 'The watercolour,' she said. 'You said it shows the cottages before the fire?'

Emily nodded.

'And these photographs – they help you stay at a particular time?'

'Yes,' Emily replied. 'They're physical connections to those moments.'

Joanna rose and crossed to the sideboard, where she kept a small wooden box. She opened it and removed a yellowed envelope. 'I've never shown this to anyone,' she said. 'Not even my husband.'

To be continued…