Dany sat on her living room floor, staring at the bandage around her ankle. The morning sunlight streamed through her windows, illuminating dust particles that danced in the air. Everything looked normal—her small apartment, her coffee mug from yesterday still on the side table, her phone charging on the counter. Everything except the massive antique wardrobe that dominated the room and the Victorian-era bandage wrapped around her ankle.
"This isn't possible," she whispered, touching the bandage gingerly. The wrapping was expertly done, the material unlike any modern medical supplies—a strip of clean linen, precisely folded and secured. Dr. John Ambrose's work.
John. The name echoed in her mind, bringing with it a flood of emotions she couldn't explain. His face appeared in her thoughts with perfect clarity—those intense blue eyes that had looked at her with such recognition, such longing. A stranger who somehow knew her.
Shakily, Dany pulled herself to her feet. Her ankle throbbed slightly, confirming that the injury had been real. She limped to the wardrobe and examined it closely, running her fingers over the intricate carvings. In the morning light, they appeared to be ordinary decorative patterns, no hint of the ethereal glow she'd seen the night before.
She pulled the doors open wide, half-expecting to be swept away again. But there was only the empty interior, a bar for hanging clothes, and a drawer at the bottom. She checked the back panel, tapped on the wood, looked for hidden compartments—anything that might explain what had happened. Nothing seemed unusual.
"I'm losing my mind," she muttered, closing the doors and stepping back. "Time travel isn't real. This was just some... some incredibly vivid dream.
"But the bandage around her ankle argued otherwise.
Dany showered and dressed, trying to go about her morning as if nothing extraordinary had happened. But her thoughts kept returning to Victorian London, to the cobblestone streets and horse-drawn carriages. To John.
"You never do, not at first. But you will remember, Dany. You always do, eventually."
His words haunted her. What did he mean by "always"? Had she traveled through time before? And why couldn't she remember?
"Find the journal. My journal. It will help you understand."
The journal. His last words before she'd been pulled back to her time. But where would she find a journal from the 1880s? And how could it possibly still exist?
Dany grabbed her laptop and began searching. "Dr. John Ambrose London 1887" yielded several results—academic papers about medical practices of the era, genealogy records, museum archives. She clicked through them frantically, looking for any mention of the doctor who had treated her ankle.
After an hour of searching, she found something—a digitized newspaper article from April 1887, reporting on a charity event at a London hospital. Among the doctors mentioned was "J. Ambrose, whose innovative treatments have earned him recognition among his peers." There was even a grainy photograph of a group of doctors. Though the quality was poor, Dany could make out a tall figure standing at the end of the row who could be John.
"So he was real," she whispered, staring at the image. "This actually happened."
Her phone rang, startling her. It was her boss from the bookstore where she worked part-time.
"Dany? Are you coming in today? Your shift started twenty minutes ago."
"I—" Dany glanced at the clock and cursed under her breath. "I'm so sorry, Mark. I completely lost track of time. I'll be there as soon as I can.
She rushed to get ready, her mind still whirling with questions. As she grabbed her bag, she paused by the wardrobe, staring at it with a mixture of fear and fascination. Would it happen again? Did she want it to?
The bookstore was busy when she arrived, and Mark gave her a disapproving look as she hurried behind the counter.
"Sorry," she said again. "I had a... strange night."
"Just don't make it a habit," he replied, handing her a stack of books to shelve.
The familiar routine of work should have been comforting, but Dany found herself moving through it in a daze. Every customer who walked in, she found herself studying their faces, irrationally hoping to see John. Every time the bell above the door jingled, she looked up expectantly.
"Are you okay?" her coworker, Liz, asked during their lunch break. "You seem distracted."
"I'm fine," Dany lied. "Just didn't sleep well."
"Hot date?" Liz teased.
Dany laughed despite herself. "You could say that. With the 19th century."
Liz raised an eyebrow but didn't press further when Dany didn't elaborate.
As her shift continued, Dany found herself drawn to the history section of the bookstore. During a quiet moment, she browsed the shelves, pulling out books about Victorian London, time travel theories, even one about antique furniture with mystical properties in folklore.
"Special research project?" Mark asked, finding her surrounded by open books.
"Just curious," Dany replied, quickly closing them.
By the time her shift ended, Dany had purchased three books with her employee discount—a detailed history of Victorian London, a book on antiques with supernatural legends attached to them, and a medical history focusing on 19th-century physicians.
Back at her apartment, she approached the wardrobe cautiously. In the fading evening light, it seemed to loom larger than before. She placed her hand on one of the doors, half-expecting to feel that electric warmth again. Nothing happened.
"What are you?" she whispered to it. "And what do you want from me?"
Dany spent the evening poring over her new books, searching for anything that might explain what had happened. The book on supernatural antiques mentioned several cases of furniture allegedly linked to disappearances or strange phenomena, but nothing specifically about wardrobes or time travel.
As midnight approached, exhaustion finally overcame her curiosity. She closed the books and headed to bed, casting one last glance at the wardrobe as she passed.
Sleep came fitfully, filled with dreams of cobblestone streets and horse-drawn carriages. And John. Always John, looking at her with those intense blue eyes, reaching for her as she slipped away from him.
She woke with a start, her heart racing. The dream had been so vivid—John standing in a garden under a full moon, taking her hands in his, leaning close to whisper something important. But as consciousness returned, the words faded, leaving only the lingering emotion behind.
Dany pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to recapture the dream. Why did she feel this connection to a man she had met only once, in what might have been a hallucination? Why did her heart ache at the thought of him?
She got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. As she passed the wardrobe, she paused. In the dim light from the street lamps outside, she thought she saw a faint glow emanating from the cracks around the doors.
Her heart began to pound. Was it happening again?
Slowly, she approached the wardrobe. The glow was definitely there—a soft, pulsing light that seemed to beckon her closer. Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle.
Before she could touch it, her phone rang, shattering the silence. Dany jumped, the spell broken. The glow faded as she turned away to answer the call.
"Hello?" she answered, her voice shaky.
"Dany? It's Liz. I know it's late, but you left your wallet at work. I found it when I was closing up."
"Oh, thanks," Dany said, trying to sound normal. "I didn't even realize."
"I can drop it by tomorrow morning if you want."
"That would be great. Thanks, Liz."
After hanging up, Dany turned back to the wardrobe. The glow was gone, the wardrobe once again just an imposing piece of furniture. Had she imagined it?
She approached cautiously and opened the doors. Empty, as before. But as she was about to close them again, something caught her eye—a small, folded piece of paper on the floor of the wardrobe that hadn't been there before.
With trembling fingers, Dany picked it up and unfolded it. The paper was yellowed with age, the handwriting elegant and flowing—clearly written with a dip pen, not a modern ballpoint.
Dany,
If you're reading this, you've begun to remember. The wardrobe has chosen you, as it chose me long ago. Our paths are intertwined across time in ways I'm still trying to understand.
I don't know when you'll find this note. Time moves differently between your world and mine. What might be days for you could be years for me, or mere hours.
There's so much I want to tell you, but the wardrobe has its own rules. Each journey reveals only what you're ready to know.
I've hidden my journal where only you would think to look. Remember the place where we first truly spoke alone. It waits there, across time.
Until we meet again,
John
Dany read the note three times, her hands shaking more with each reading. This was real. All of it was real.
"The place where we first truly spoke alone," she murmured, trying to remember. The guest room at the Fletcher house? But how could she possibly find that place in modern London, assuming the house even still existed?
She returned to her laptop and searched for "Fletcher family London 1887." After several more specific searches, she found a reference to a Thomas Fletcher who had become a prominent businessman in the early 1900s. His childhood home was mentioned—17 Belgrave Square.
Dany's heart raced. Belgrave Square still existed. She could go there, find the house. But what then? The journal would have been hidden over 130 years ago. What were the chances it would still be there?
Still, she had to try. She had to know.
Sleep was impossible now. Dany spent the rest of the night researching, planning. By morning, she had a map of Belgrave Square, historical photos of the area from the 1880s, and as much information as she could find about the Fletcher family and their home.
As dawn broke, she stood before the wardrobe again. "I'll find it," she promised, not sure if she was speaking to the wardrobe itself or to John across time. "I'll find the journal."
She placed her hand on the wardrobe door, feeling a faint warmth beneath her palm. Not the full electric sensation of before, but something. A connection.
For the first time since her return, Dany felt something other than confusion and fear. She felt purpose. And beneath that, something deeper, more unsettling—a longing for a man she barely knew, a man separated from her by more than a century.
"I'll find you again," she whispered, and for a moment, she could almost see John's face reflected in the polished wood of the wardrobe, his blue eyes watching her from across time.
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