Eighteen Hundred

I was not superstitious. A broken mirror was just a shattered piece of glass; a black cat was just a cat. I did not believe in lucky numbers or in love at first sight, dismissing it as utter poppycock.

That being said, I was not averse to being proven wrong. I was, actually – proven wrong, that is – but not quite in the way that I had imagined.

It was a warm summer’s day, the first time I remember seeing the number. Eighteen hundred, on the back of a bus, trundling along a lonely, dusty road. I remember that day vividly, how the bus shone bright, glinting in the sunlight, how the dust hovered above the road like some menacing cloud, how the sky was shining and blue, how the sweat beaded on my face.

I recall being briefly amused: I often wondered, privately of course, what my life would have been like had I been born in that precise year. Why I originally chose eighteen hundred, I do not know, but there it was. In two thousand and twenty-five, I did not find very much to enjoy. Technology was rapidly evolving, new gadgets being thrown onto the market, enraptured citizens of all cities watching and waiting, open mouthed, for the newest, fanciest thing to be made available.

It seemed to me that all these developments were sucking the soul out of humanity. We no longer paused in our day to enjoy a pleasing sunrise, instead, head down, shoulders hunched, phone in hand, we continued, oblivious to the goings-on around us. Adolescents were always chattering quickly in near incomprehensible tones; nobody I knew ever stopped to admire nature’s beauty or just comment on a funny-looking cloud in the sky.

Once, a man spoke to me on a train, praising me for reading a book as opposed to being on my cell phone like the rest of them, saying that he ought to follow my example. Have we truly come to a day where reading a book as a leisurely activity is considered noteworthy?

The second time I saw the number was in November of that same year, on a golden, flashing sign pointing to a nearby restaurant. Established since 1800, it boasted, advertising great food and service. After that, I noticed it everywhere, sometimes in rather unsuspecting places. For example, as I was taking my bicycle for a ride down to the river, I noticed something engraved in the dirt on the bank. Approaching, I was able to make out four distinct numbers, carved in the earth with a stick of some sort, deep grooves that would fill with water by the next evening. One, eight, zero, zero.

Despite being a firm adherer to scientific fact and analysis, I did allow myself to speculate that the universe was taunting me somehow. A reminder that I could not travel back in time, a reminder that no matter how hard I tried, I always felt slightly out of place, as if everything had shifted slightly to the left of where it was supposed to be.

It was not until I grew older that I met Charlotte.

I was nineteen, young, ambitious, clever and a bit lost. I was right in the middle of university, that chaotic whirl of learning and energy that never seemed to give one a break, studying the sciences and literature. An odd combination, people sometimes commented, but I thought it made perfect sense: one the one hand, I learnt about the rational, the logical, the analytical, on the other hand, I learnt about the emotional, the carefree.

The day began as a dull one, grey skies and the promise of rain hanging heavy in the air. I spent it in the school library, working on a paper I had for a Shakespeare play of our choice – mine was about Twelfth Night.

Head bent over my books, pen moving quickly, I did not notice that a person had paused in front of my table until they coughed.

I straightened, startled, and saw a girl of perhaps my age, with long, twisting black hair, icy blue eyes and a leather bag slung over one shoulder.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if you might have a pen I could borrow?” She asked.

“Do I know you?” I questioned, handing her a pen. The girl seemed so familiar, and yet I did not think I had ever met her before.

“I don’t believe so. Although we may have a few classes together, I’m also majoring in literature. Thanks very much for the pen, though. I’ll bring it back before you leave.” She promised, smiling and turning away.

She did not come back for another hour or so, during which time I had completed my assignment and was beginning to drop everything in my satchel and pray that my papers would not get too destroyed in that endless abyss.

“Thanks again for the pen.” She smiled again, handing it back to me.

I suddenly noticed a small engraving in the red leather of her bag and burst into laughter. Four numbers; one, eight, zero, zero.

She appeared confused. “Why are you laughing?”

“I am so sorry.” I hastened to say. “It’s just, the numbers you have engraved in the leather, there, they have a bit of a significance for me, and I thought it was amusing to see them so blatantly displayed on another person.”

“Eighteen hundred, really? I always thought that if people could time travel, that’s the year I’d go back to.” She looked a bit sheepish admitting this, and I must admit, I stared at her for a good long minute, incredulous.

“You are kidding! That’s what I’ve always thought, too.”

“Charlotte.” She extended a hand.

“Anna.” I replied.

After that initial meeting, we learnt the others’ habits and hobbies, making a point to ‘run into each other’ often during the next few months. I learnt that Charlotte loved to knit and drink tea, she discovered that I liked to cycle and play the piano. We shared a love of the concept of time travel – how it would work, how it was treated in fiction books, what we would do if we could travel back in time.

Now, nearly two decades later, I realize how lucky I was to meet her.