The Time Wanderer...

Dear Readers,

It started on a cold December evening, the kind that made the air crisp and the silence of the world seem more profound. I stood in the shadows of an alley, not far from the bright chaos of the city’s bustling streets, holding the old, brass compass in my palm. This wasn't just any compass; it was the key to my greatest secret, one I’d carried for years but barely understood.

The hum of life continued around me, oblivious to the fact that I wasn't like everyone else. I wasn't bound by time. I was a time traveler, an anomaly in a world so trapped by the ticking of the clock. Every heartbeat was a countdown, but for me, it was just another chapter to unfold. Tonight, the compass felt warmer, vibrating in my hand with a sudden urgency.

The first time I’d traveled had been by mistake a fluke when I was a teenager, running from the bullies who’d cornered me in a schoolyard. I had stumbled into an old antique store, drawn by the odd feeling of familiarity, and the compass on the shelf had called to me. I had reached for it, and in a flash, the sky around me had transformed. I had found myself standing in the quiet, moonlit streets of Paris in the 1800s, with carriages rumbling by and gas lamps flickering. That night, I knew my life would never be the same.

Since then, I have learned to harness the power of the compass. I had crossed centuries, walked through the rise and fall of empires, watched the oceans swell and shrink, and seen men in top hats and women in flowing gowns as well as futuristic cities where towering spires scraped the sky. But always, I returned with the feeling that something was out of place, that the world I came back to had changed in subtle, silent ways, leaving me to wonder if I were part of it anymore.

Tonight, I was driven by something more than curiosity. It was the thought of them the people who I had lost and never told, the ones who would have changed everything had they known my secret. I remembered my father’s voice as he told me stories of the time before my birth and the sound of my mother's laughter as she read aloud to me by the fire. They were my anchor, my reason for keeping time's endless loop from swallowing me whole.

The compass spun in my hand, its needle swinging wildly before stopping at a precise, unwavering point. I knew where it would take me, and for once, I didn’t hesitate. my heart pounded, and my skin prickled with the thrill and fear of knowing that this time, I wasn’t just wandering through the corridors of time. I was on a mission.

A moment later, the city before I blinked out of existence, replaced by the familiar warmth of a past that had been so perfectly preserved in my memory. There they were, standing just a short distance away: my parents, younger than I remembered, their eyes bright with unfulfilled dreams.

They were waiting for me, though they would never know it. The air crackled with the sound of time bending, ready to push me forward or pull me back. I took a deep breath, knowing this was a goodbye. The compass flickered and dimmed in my palm. Time would move on, but I, the wanderer, would remain.

And so, I walked forward, leaving my footprints in the sands of their world, a silent witness to their lives, knowing I could never tell them the truth. And as the first snow began to fall, I let the moment last just a little longer, before the compass whispered a final, unwavering call, pulling me back into the void.

The city hummed in my ears as I returned, but this time, I wasn't just a traveler. I was a guardian of stories untold and memories locked away, a wanderer whose journey was never just about the past or the future, but about the moments that made them real.

Jacob M