Chapter 82
Hattie
The moon is a silver coin dangling in the night sky, casting a pale shimmer over the cottage. I stand next to Eric’s stone well, heart pounding, hands shaking. My jeans and T-shirt feel strange against my skin after so many weeks in heavy linen dresses.
I can still feel Eric’s kiss on my lips, the way his hands cupped my face like I was something fragile and precious. We hadn’t said goodbye exactly. Neither of us could bear the word, but I’d kissed him one last time beneath the oak, trying to memorize the taste of him, the weight of his body against mine. Now, with possibly only seconds left in this time, I already miss him so much I feel hollow.
I’m surprised Eric didn’t show up and try to stop me. He must not have wanted to watch me leave….
Behind me, Charlie shifts from foot to foot, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She looks like she’s trying not to cry.
“It’s really time then?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, trying to keep my composure. I’ve already cried too much tonight, and I don’t trust myself not to fall apart again. “If this doesn’t work….” I trail off.
“I’ll be right here.” Charlie stands in front of me and takes my hands. “If you come back up, I’ll help you out. I swear.”
She’s taller than I am and much stronger from years of hard work. Her face shines in the moonlight. I play with the tear in her sleeve from when we helped Martin build a fence earlier this week.
Martin, the soldier boy, decided to stay at the Monroes as a field hand, at least through the summer, maybe longer. His wound has mostly healed, though he still limps a little. I think he needs this place, needs the quiet and the kindness the Monroes have shown him. He said as much to me yesterday when we hauled water together. “Not much left for me back in London,” he’d said with a shrug. “Maybe I’ll plant something and see if it grows.”
I smiled and told him he came to the right place. And now I’m leaving it behind.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
Charlie tightens her grip. “Me, too.”
We stand in silence for a few more moments. The cicadas hum. I glance at the well, dark and still, and feel doubt tying a knot deep in my chest. What if it doesn’t work? What if I just land at the bottom and break my neck?
“You’ll tell them goodbye for me?” I ask.
Charlie sniffles. “Every one of them.”
I throw my arms around her. She holds me tightly, the way only a best friend can.
“Go,” she whispers in my ear. “Before I drag you back into the house.”
I let go, step back, and take one final breath. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Then I turn, swing one leg over the stone edge, and before I can think too hard, I jump.
Cold water slams into me, wrapping around my body like a fist. I try to scream, but only bubbles escape. The darkness is absolute. No shimmer of moonlight, no trace of the world I just left. Panic surges up inside me.
I’m drowning!
I start to swim toward the surface, desperate against the pull of the current, or maybe just gravity.
My lungs burn, begging for air, but I keep kicking, forcing myself upward through the suffocating dark. Just when I think I won’t make it, my head breaks the surface, and I suck in a ragged breath, air flooding my chest like fire.
After I catch my breath, I fumble along the slick sandstone wall, my hands slipping until I find my escape route built right into the wall. Relief crashes over me. Eric built the ladder, just like I asked.
My fingers grip the sides of the stone wall with all my strength. One step after the other, I climb. My wet clothes cling to me, heavy and dripping, but I don’t stop. I’m shaking by the time I haul myself over the top and onto the soft grass of the cottage yard.
I lie on my back for a moment, gasping, staring up at the stars. Everything feels different, and my body hurts in a hundred places.
I sit up slowly. Right beside the well lies my phone, dry, whole, and still glowing faintly. I reach for it with trembling fingers. The screen lights up, bright and familiar.
June 10, 2025. 12:04 AM.
I let out a breath. I made it. And I’m right back at the time that I left.
For a terrifying moment, I think maybe I imagined everything. Eric, Charlie, the Monroes, the Battle of Bunker Hill. But the ache in my heart says otherwise, the invisible weight of goodbye still pressing on my shoulders. Tears spill down my cheeks, silent and warm. I’m both happy and heartbroken to be home.
I move through the trees in the direction of the Monroe estate, the soles of my wet shoes whispering against the undergrowth. The woods feel different now, quieter, emptier. In 1775, this forest was alive with birdsong and woodsmoke, the snap of kindling underfoot, the rustle of skirts and boots and boys chasing each other through the leaves. Now, the trees are taller, and the air smells like pollutants and “progress,” not hearth fires and bread rising in window sills. For a moment, I swear I hear the faint laughter of the Monroe children echoing through the trees, light and breathless.
The house is dark and quiet when I slip inside. I leave my wet socks and shoes at the back door and pad upstairs. The scent of laundry detergent and lemon cleaner hits me like a punch to the gut, so ordinary, so achingly modern.
I open the bathroom door, flick the light on, and stare at my reflection. I look like a ghost or maybe a zombie.
My hair is plastered to my head, mud is smeared across my cheek, and my eyes are wide and haunted. I turn the water on hot and strip out of my clothes. The shower stings at first, then soothes, washing away the grime of two centuries.
I lean my forehead against the tile and close my eyes. Images flicker behind my lids. Eric’s face. Charlie’s grin. The Monroes gathered around their table, hands clasped in prayer.
I let the water run until it turns cool, the steam curling around me. I'd almost forgotten how luxurious indoor plumbing really is.
Afterward, I dress in dry pajamas and tiptoe into the bedroom I share with my sister. Nina stirs when I slip under the covers.
“Hattie?” she mumbles sleepily.
“Yeah,” I whisper, curling up beside her. “I’m here now.”
She drapes an arm over my waist and falls back to sleep.
I lie there, listening to the soft tick of the clock and the gentle hum of electricity in the walls.
The modern world feels strange and much too loud. But I’ll adjust.
Still, my heart aches. I miss him already. I fall asleep, reaching for images of him.
The next morning, I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon. The sun is streaming in the window, warm and golden, and for a minute, I pretend it’s just a normal summer day.
Then it all comes rushing back.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes. Nina is gone from the bed, probably downstairs eating breakfast.
I press my palm to the mattress, grounding myself. I’m really here. I made it back. It’s not a dream. I traveled through time and returned.
After getting dressed and ready for the day, I head downstairs, my heart thudding. Part of me wonders if anyone will notice something’s different, since no time passed here at all while I spent a month living in 1775.
The moment I see her, leaning on the kitchen counter in her robe, hair still damp from the shower, I freeze. My mom.
My throat tightens as a rush of emotion barrels through me: relief, disbelief, love. She smiles like she always does, and says, “Morning, honey,” as if I haven’t been gone a lifetime. I want to fling my arms around her and sob into her shoulder. I want to tell her everything. How I could have died. How I fell in love. How I miss people she’s never met….
But I just nod, swallowing hard. “Morning,” I manage, voice shaking. And that single word contains everything I can’t yet say.
“There you are,” Nina says, her voice light. “You were out cold.”
I nod. “Sorry. I was… just… exhausted.”
She smiles. “You okay?”
I hesitate. Then I nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”
I pour myself a mug of coffee and sit across from her. The comforting warmth spreads through my hands into my chest.
Dad strolls into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing the back of his neck. He gives me a hug that smells like aftershave. “Morning, kiddo,” he mumbles.
I cling to him a second longer than usual, my eyes stinging. To him, it’s just another day. But to me, this moment is everything. Being safe, being home, being held by my dad after a month of wondering if I’d ever see him again.
I will always carry Eric with me, in a part of me that doesn’t quite belong to this century anymore. Time didn’t stop while I was gone, but somehow, it folded like the pages of a book. Maybe Eric is still somewhere out there, wondering if I made it.
I hope he knows I did. I hope he knows I’ll never forget him….
As the sun climbs higher outside the kitchen window, and my family chats about nothing at all, I wrap my hands around my coffee cup, anchor myself to this moment, and let the ache settle quietly beside the joy. I’m home. And that has to be enough.