Above Bay Street

The sign was weathered but legible:

Time and Again

Antiques and Keepsakes

This was the place. Jason parked, grabbing his camera bag. For months, he’d hunted these stores—corners of history hiding in plain sight. His editor called it Fading Frames: photos of forgotten rooms paired with scenes of modern life. A small feature, but enough to keep him traveling and paid.

Bay Street was promising. He’d marked the harbor, the iron balconies, the ghost signs. A local tip mentioned this shop—and Ms. Vale.

He checked his hair in the rearview mirror, then stepped outside.

The air smelled faintly of salt and cedar. Gulls wheeled above the harbor, but Jason's focus was elsewhere.

Second-story windows stared down from buildings largely unchanged since the early 1900s: iron balconies, flaking paint, ghostly signs peeking out. Jason smiled. This was fertile ground.

He walked to the narrow door of the shop and saw the doorknob move as he went to grab it.

The door swung open with a squeak. Standing before him was a slender woman in a slate-gray dress, her dark hair pulled back into a neat bun. She looked over Jason slowly.

"Mr. Halbrect?" she asked, coolly.

Jason extended his hand. "That's me. Jason's fine. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Vale."

She continued to study him as she took his hand, saying nothing for a long moment.

"Right. Great name for a shop, by the way," Jason added, finally dropping her hand.

"Thank you. Please, come in. Be careful—some things are older than they look," she said.

Jason chuckled. "I'll tread carefully."

The bell above the door gave a soft, mechanical chime as Ms. Vale closed it behind them. Jason blinked, adjusting to the gentle change in atmosphere.

The smell hit first—not musty, like he expected, but warm. Wood polish, faded perfume, and something faintly metallic.

The shop was packed. Shelves lined the walls with portraits, bottles, old books, toys, and tin signs. Tables held ivory-handled tools and teacups.

From behind him, Jason heard the bell above the door ring. A small, old man walked in, propped up by a cane and hunched with time. He looked at Jason for a moment, then turned to Ms. Vale, giving her a courteous nod.

“Good morning, Miss,” he said as he walked past her.

“Mr. Mallory,” Ms. Vale said back, returning the nod.

At first glance, it was scattershot nostalgia like any antique store. But as Jason moved further, the arrangement revealed a deliberate order—each item chosen for its neighbors. Pressed flowers beside a china saucer; a sepia portrait above worn children's books. The place was arranged by mood, not era or price.

Jason had become so engrossed in the room’s contents that he hadn’t even registered the other customer. The layout of the items sucked him in. There was a sense of whimsy to it; a flow that felt almost melancholy. He had stopped to admire a small collection of harmonicas when he heard Ms. Vale’s voice across the room.

“Anything to your liking, Jason?”

He looked up, cheeks flushing as embarrassment prickled his skin. She stood behind the register, one eyebrow raised, next to the banister of the stairs heading up.

“Oh, god, sorry about that,” Jason said, putting the strap of his camera around his neck, “Got a bit carried away. Wonderful stuff you have here.”

Ms. Vale looked up the stairs, “Shall we?”

“Yes, thank you!” Jason said as he stepped sideways past a stack of cigar boxes.

She turned and moved toward the back of the shop. Jason trailed after her, leaving the dense displays of the front room behind.

He found himself watching her more closely. She was younger than he expected. Most antique store owners were gray-haired and chatty. Ms. Vale moved like someone who simply allowed things to come to her. Timeless, he thought.

She led him through a narrow hallway to a staircase along the back wall. The wood creaked under his feet softly, like the building had been taught to be quiet.

Jason tilted his head up as he climbed to see the landing above. Light filtered down from somewhere ahead; as the second floor came into view, he stopped on the stairs, his eyes widening.

"Now this… this is what I'm looking for."

As Jason stepped onto the second-floor landing, he raised his camera, attention shifting from the stairs to the open room.

The second floor mirrored the shop below, but without shelves or narrow walkways—just open space, scattered items, and stillness.

Carpet rolls leaned against the walls. Furniture shrouded in white sheets was pushed aside. Open crates waited. Stillness hung over everything.

Light streamed through tall windows, casting shadows on weathered wood floors—the original boards.

Jason crossed quickly to the windows, camera in hand, and peered down at Bay Street below.

The contrast struck him hard.

People bustled past on the sidewalk. Cars idled at the light. Someone carried a shopping bag that flashed in the sunlight. And here he was, above it all, in a room suspended between history and dust.

He raised his camera.

"This is perfect."

He turned to look back at Ms. Vale. She hadn't moved from her spot near the top of the stairs. One hand rested gently on the banister.

He smiled politely.

Her face remained pleasant but still.

Jason shot quickly, capturing the angled light, draped sheets, and clustered shadows. He framed an old coat rack filled with forgotten jackets, a wicker basket by the window, and curled maps against the street below—past and present locked in one image.

He lost track of time.

When the shutter stopped responding, he checked the camera and saw that the memory card was full. He dropped to one knee by his bag and pulled a fresh one from a side pocket.

As he slid the new card into place, Jason glanced back toward the stairwell, half expecting to see Ms. Vale standing where she had been.

She was gone.

He frowned, unsettled, and quickly scanned the room. She was nowhere in sight. Confusion pricked his nerves—he hadn’t heard her head back downstairs.

Jason turned back to his viewfinder and tried to focus. After taking a few more photos, the quiet pressed in again, and he found himself talking out loud to get her location, just to hear his own voice.

"So, uh, what drew you to a job like this?"

"The memories," came Ms. Vale’s response, closer than Jason had expected. He nearly jumped. Behind him, he saw her standing next to a collection of brass compacts as if she had been there all along.

Jason startled, nearly dropping his camera, and forced an uneasy smile. "Sorry, I didn’t see you there."

Ms. Vale continued naturally. "So many of these things," she said, almost absently, picking up a small glass sparrow, "meant the world to someone once." She set it down carefully beside a folded shawl. "And now they're left in boxes. Given away. Forgotten. Not even sold, just… given."

Jason looked at the bird. The word stuck in his head:

Given.

He looked up at her. She didn't seem sad, despite her thoughts. Not exactly.

Jason did his best to regain his composure as he looked around the room. "This is wonderful. You have no idea. Thank you so much."

"That's good to hear," Ms. Vale said with a small smile.

Jason lowered the camera again, trying to find a new angle for photos. As he scanned the room, his eye caught something behind a cluster of tall drawers pushed against the far wall: a stair rail. Narrow. Faded. Leading up.

He pointed toward it. "Is there a third floor?"

She turned to follow his gaze. "Yes, there is."

Jason smiled. "Would it be alright if I went up there too?"

She nodded slowly. "Would you like to be there?"

He smiled to hide his confusion. The question was phrased strangely, but not enough to dull his excitement as he walked to the stairs.

"Absolutely," he said.

Ms. Vale smiled faintly. "Good. We can go there. But so you know," she looked to the stairs, and in that instant her eyes seemed to darken with something strange and distant, "this is Mr. Mallory's time."

Jason paused at the stairs. "Oh—is it an apartment up there? I don't want to intrude—"

She gently shook her head.

"No. Nothing like that. Mr. Mallory is just enjoying some time, that's all. We're free to go up. If you wish."

Jason glanced at the narrow stairwell. He had come this far—why not a bit more?

"Yeah," he said finally. "Let's take a look."

They climbed together, the staircase turning tighter, steeper. Light dimmed as they left the second floor. Only three narrow windows lit the third floor, old glass softening the gray light.

As his eyes adjusted, Jason saw the space was nearly empty. Just a large, open room with stillness so complete it felt like sound had been drained away.

The first thing he noticed was the chair.

An old, tall-backed leather armchair sat facing a window. A thin, pale hand rested on one of its arms.

Mr. Mallory, Jason thought to himself.

Beside the chair was a small round table with a clock ticking gently, almost too quiet to hear.

Against the far wall sat a second table. On it was an old record player, untouched but waiting.

Ms. Vale stepped lightly into the room and moved toward the record player. She didn't speak. Didn't look toward the chair. Her movements were silent.

Jason stayed halfway up the staircase, caught between entering and retreating. No introductions. No words from the man in the chair. Just that soft ticking clock and the dim light brushing across the floor.

He looked back down the stairs, a sudden urge to leave tugging at him.

But then he looked back at the room—the chair, the light, the distance between things. There was something about it. Something too perfect. Too aligned with what he'd been chasing all this time.

This wasn't just a good photo opportunity; it was precisely what he'd been looking for.

Jason made his way into the room with a few soft steps, crossing the threshold from the dim stairwell into the near silence beyond.

There was nothing else—no clutter, no shelves, no decor. Just space, stillness, and an old man in a chair.

He lifted his camera and held it at the ready, then walked slowly toward the old man.

Behind him, Ms. Vale carefully removed a record from a worn sleeve. She moved gingerly, precisely. The record needle dropped with a soft click, and a slow, crackling melody spilled out—a song that sounded older than memory.

Jason stepped beside the chair as she set the record gently on the turntable.

The man didn't turn his head. But one hand rose slightly, palm out—a quiet signal: stop.

Jason froze mid-step, confusion and embarrassment tangling in his throat. He swallowed and cleared his throat quietly, trying to steady himself.

"I was just wondering if I could take a few pictures up here," he said, keeping his voice soft. "Maybe one of you, if that's alright?"

The old man's hand moved again, not to stop him, but a subtle wave from side to side. Not no, not yes—something in between.

Then the voice came, thin but steady, still facing forward.

"Yes. Whatever you want."

Jason hesitated, then nodded, offering a polite smile.

"Well… thank you. I guess I'll get started."

He raised the camera again but paused, eyes drifting toward the windows.

"Do you come up here a lot?" he asked, almost absently, his gaze pulled outward.

He stopped abruptly, breath hitching, body tensed.

What lay beyond the glass was not the Bay Street he knew.

His mind reeled.

Gone were the freshly paved streets, modern storefronts, and parked cars.

In their place was a smaller town—one he recognized but didn't fully know. Buildings he'd seen in crumbling photographs now stood tall and freshly painted. Others he knew should be there were gone, their spaces filled with open lots and trees.

On the cobbled street, old cars from the 1930s and '40s passed. People in hats and coats moved quickly, oblivious to onlookers.

Further out, Jason saw the bay, empty of modern yachts. Only a few wooden piers reached into the water, and beyond them, black-smoked ferries and fishing boats traced paths across the calm blue.

He knew what should be out there. He'd stood in front of these same street-facing windows minutes ago, looking down at buses, food trucks, newer signs, and the midday rush.

But this—this was not the town he knew.

This wasn't Bay Street as it was now.

It was Bay Street as it used to be.

The disconnect froze Jason in place.

His mind raced, grasping for logic, explanation, anything—but all that came out was a dry, incredulous whisper.

"What is this?"

He turned back toward Ms. Vale.

She stood beside the record player, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her eyes were calm. Knowing.

"This," she said softly, "is Mr. Mallory's time."

Jason looked again at the window, then at the old man in the chair.

Though clouded with age, Mallory's eyes were focused, intent.

Suddenly, he leaned forward slightly and glanced at the small clock on the table beside him. His withered hand lifted and pointed toward the window.

"Here she comes," he said, voice worn thin by years but charged with quiet joy.

Jason followed his gaze.

Mallory pointed again, more animated now. His hand trembled, but his smile bloomed wide across his face.

"There she is," he whispered.

Jason stepped closer to the window.

On the street below—a different time—a woman in a green dress, blond hair beneath a cream hat, waited at the curb, then crossed between slow-moving sedans. A sailor in dress blues stood waiting.

They met in the middle of the sidewalk. She threw her arms around him, kissed his cheek, and laughed.

Jason couldn't hear the sound but felt it in his chest.

They walked down the street, arm in arm. The sailor opened the soda shop door; she paused, smiled up at him, then disappeared inside.

"She always said I was the only one who could make her laugh," Mr. Mallory said, his voice barely more than a breath.

Jason looked down. A tear traced a thin line along the old man's cheek.

"Perfect," he murmured. "It's just… perfect."

His fingers gripped the chair tightly.

"It's been a long time since I've seen her. Ten years now."

Jason swallowed hard, realization settling in.

Mallory turned his gaze up, locking eyes with him, clear and alive.

"She's given me back just a little bit of time."

He motioned gently toward the corner of the room, where Ms. Vale now stood, her figure half-draped in shadow.

"She's given this to me," Mr. Mallory said. "This time again."

Mr. Mallory smiled faintly and closed his eyes, resting a trembling hand over his chest.

Jason stood before the window, staring at the impossible scene. Slowly, he reached out and touched the glass.

It was solid. Cold.

He watched the street below, watched the world move in a rhythm he recognized, but in a time he did not.

He took a step back.

A cold sense of wrongness crept in. He felt eyes on him and spun toward the corner, blood hammering in his ears.

Ms. Vale stood in the shadows, the light from the window not quite reaching her. He could only make out the pale shape of her neatly folded hands. Her face, obscured.

His voice cracked as he asked, softly, "You gave him this?"

From the dark, her eyes flickered—just briefly—as the light caught them in reflection.

"Yes," she said simply, the softness gone from her voice now.

Jason looked back at Mr. Mallory. The old man mouthed the words to the song playing from the record player, eyes still closed, his smile serene.

Jason turned again toward the corner. His voice came sharper this time.

"And what do you get?"

Her eyes flared—not with natural light, but with something otherworldly, a faint red glow, ancient and inhuman.

Then she spoke again.

Not with her mouth.

Not aloud.

The voice poured straight into Jason's mind—an impossible, supernatural force. The words were not sound, but a presence: nowhere, everywhere, vibrating his bones, erasing ordinary reality.

Only what is given.

The force of the words hit him like a wave.

Jason recoiled, stumbling back as if struck. His knees gave out; he collapsed to the floor, gasping as his camera skittered beside him.

Every nerve in his body screamed.

Run!

He snatched up the camera on reflex and scrambled across the wooden floor on hands and knees, skidding past Ms. Vale.

She didn't move.

As he passed, he saw her fully for the first time. Eyes blazing like otherworldly coals, lips curled into a smile that shimmered with something unearthly.

Too wide.

Too pleased.

Jason nearly tumbled headfirst down the stairs. He caught the railing, slipped, and half-fell, taking the steps three at a time. He crashed into the wall at the bottom, then spun and sprinted through the shop, past shelves, glass cases, and forgotten treasures.

He burst through the door and stumbled into Bay Street sunlight, the old shop vanishing behind him as he returned to the world outside.

The present slammed back into him.

He ran across the street, heedless of screeching brakes and horns. Tires screamed as cars jolted to a halt, but he didn't slow.

He reached the opposite sidewalk and slammed into a bakery window, rattling the display case and startling customers inside.

Jason braced his hands against the glass, hunched over, panting.

The panic began to lift.

Then, through the glass in front of him, he saw the reflection of a sign.

He turned sharply, eyes scanning upward, back across the street.

There was the storefront for Time and Again.

Ordinary, quaint, and two stories tall.

As it had always been.