Time traveling

The hum was a low, persistent thrum that vibrated through Dr. Alistair Finch’s bones. It was the sound of the Temporal Displacement Unit, tucked away in the repurposed bunker beneath his family’s ancestral estate. He’d spent the better part of a decade perfecting it, fuelled by a relentless need to understand the past, not just read about it. Tonight, that need had become an obsession.

Alistair was a man of order, of meticulous planning. Yet, as he adjusted the chronometer, setting it for June 12th, 1998, a tremor of something akin to fear ran through him. He was a historian by trade; his academic life was spent dissecting the minutiae of archived records and faded photographs. He was about to become a participant, not just an observer.

He had chosen 1998 for a reason. It was the year his mother, Clara, had died. She’d been taken by a swift and aggressive illness, leaving behind a void in his life that even the passing of decades hadn't filled. His hope, a fragile, almost shameful thing, was to see her again, to perhaps glean some understanding of the woman who had shaped him.

The air cracked, the low hum escalating to a roar, the bunker lights flickered, and the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of fractured images. Then, silence. When Alistair opened his eyes, he was no longer in the sterile, concrete bunker. He stood on a familiar cobbled path, the scent of lavender and damp earth heavy in the air. It was the garden of his childhood home, bathed in the soft, golden light of early evening.

He blinked, disoriented, but his rational mind was already whirring, cataloguing the differences. The rosebushes were shorter and less pruned. The garden gnome, a gaudy ceramic eyesore he'd always secretly loathed, stood proudly beneath the oak tree. It was 1998. He had done it.

He moved towards the house, a large, rambling Victorian structure with peeling paint and a certain kind of comfortable neglect. The front door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, his heart thumping against his ribs like a trapped bird. The house was quieter than it should be. In his memories, there had always been some level of domestic cacophony—the clatter of dishes, the murmur of conversation, the scratch of his father’s pen.

He called out, his voice sounding strangely thin in the stillness. “Hello?”

A door creaked open from the study, and his father, a younger, more vibrant version of the man he knew, appeared. He was surrounded by papers, his reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. Alistair’s heart lurched. He hadn’t seen his father with that much vitality in years.

“Alistair?” his father said, peering at him with a mixture of confusion and surprise. “What are you doing here?”

He had prepared for this, a carefully crafted story about a research project and a spontaneous visit. He delivered it smoothly, feeling a strange detachment as he spoke, as if he were an actor reciting lines learnt by rote.

His father, ever the gracious host, ushered him into the study. The familiar smell of old books and pipe tobacco enveloped him, a sensory onslaught that nearly brought him to his knees. He glanced around the room, noticing the framed photographs on the desk, the same chipped teacup his mother had always used.

“Your mother’s out at the market,” his father said, breaking into his reverie. “Should be back soon. You know, she’s been... Well, she hasn’t been herself lately.”

Alistair felt a cold dread creep in. He knew the 'not herself' was the insidious beginning of the illness. The reason he was here.

“What do you mean?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

His father sighed, running a hand through thinning hair. “She’s been tired, complaining of headaches. I’ve been encouraging her to see Dr. Brampton, but you know your mother; she's as stubborn as a mule." He chuckled, a sad, rueful sound. "She thinks she can just will herself better."

Alistair felt a desperate urge to warn him, to tell him about the swift, unforgiving nature of the disease. But he knew he couldn’t. Any disruption, any alteration of the past, could have catastrophic consequences on his own timeline. He was here to observe, not interfere.

The front door slammed, and then her voice, warm and melodious, filled the house. "Edward, I'm back!"

Alistair tensed, gripping the edge of his father’s desk. He hadn't heard her voice in so long, and the reality of it was almost overwhelming.

Clara entered the study. She was thinner than he remembered, but her eyes, the same vibrant blue he’d always cherished, shone with gentle kindness. A sudden, intense ache resonated in his chest. She was there, alive, breathing.

“Alistair, darling, what a surprise!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up with a smile. She hugged him tightly, and the familiar scent of her lavender perfume filled his senses, a powerful wave of memory washing over him.

They spent the evening together, a surreal tableau of domestic normalcy. They ate dinner around the large dining table, her laughter echoing through the room. He watched her, studying her every move and every expression, desperately trying to memorise the nuances of her being. He asked her about her day, listened intently to her stories, drinking in the simple, ordinary moments.

Later, as the sun set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, he found himself sitting with her in the garden. He was struck by the way she looked at the world, with a quiet wonder and an innate optimism. He wanted to hold her, to tell her everything, but he knew he couldn’t.

He only had a few hours before he had to return to his own time, but he realised that he hadn’t come to change the past or even gain more insight into his mother's life. He'd come for connection—a fleeting reunion with a woman he'd mourned for so long.

As he prepared to leave, he hugged her again, longer this time. He whispered, "I love you, Mum," the words catching in his throat, thick with unshed tears.

She smiled, her fingers gently cupping his cheek. "I love you too, darling," she said.

He stepped back into the bunker as the Temporal Displacement Unit re-engaged. The hum filled his ears, the familiar kaleidoscope of fragmented images assaulted his eyes, and he was back in his present, the sterile concrete walls closing in around him.

The world felt different somehow. The weight of loss was still there, but it was lighter, tempered with a fragile comfort. He hadn't changed the past; he hadn't saved his mother. But he had seen her, and in those few precious hours, he had found a measure of peace. The hum of the Temporal Displacement Unit still resonated within him, but now it carried a note of longing, a quiet promise to carry her memory with him always. He was a historian, after all, and history, he now understood, was not just about dates and events but about the human connections that lingered long after their moment in time had passed.