Ripples in the Stream

He gazed, mouth dry and heart racing. Grandfather Thomas Bennett looked younger than James remembered; his features seemed sharp and angles, with dark hair still there which had long been graying in photographs James remembered. A pressed white shirt and suspenders defined the form, which he stood up tall against but which spoke with curiosity of something within him.

"Grandpa?" he stammered.

Thomas scowled. "Grandpa? You okay, James? And what's with the clothes?"

James looked down, and his mind reeled in shock. He was still wearing his jeans and hoodie from the present day. The impossibility of it all slammed into him like a train. He had traveled through time; he had gone to a point when his grandfather would have been alive and much younger. The clock had worked, but how? And why?

"I, uh, it's. costume day at school," James stammered, grabbing for a reasonable lie.

Thomas arched an eyebrow but didn't probe. "Well, whatever you're doing, don't stay long. Your father's waiting for you at the shop soon."

"My father?" James repeated, dazed. His father had died when James was in his teens; the mention of him sent a pang through his chest.

"Yes, your father," Thomas said, with a hint of exasperation. "He is trying to teach you the trade. Do not tell me you forgot once more."

James scrambled out of the chair. "Of course, right. I am going there now."

Thomas gave him one last scrutiny and then walked away from James.

As he stepped outside, James found himself standing in a typical 1960s neighborhood of old cars, cobblestone roads, and sharp dressed people with well-tailored suits and long elegant dresses, and the fresh air was cleaner and lighter, sounds of laughter, and conversations together with the low hum of the streetcar in the distance.

James's head spun. The clock threw him into a world he hardly knew. He was a tourist in his family's history. If his father were alive, then what does it mean about all James has been remembering?

Guided by instinct, James followed the street to a small bookstore with a wooden sign reading Bennett & Son Rare Books. Inside, the scent of leather and paper filled the air, and rows of meticulously organized bookshelves stretched to the ceiling. Behind the counter stood a man James would have recognized anywhere: his father, Henry Bennett.

Henry was around his early thirties, with the same strong jawline and warm brown eyes James had inherited. Seeing him alive and vibrant left James momentarily speechless.

"Ah, there you are!" Henry said, grinning. "Thought you'd ditch me again today."

James forced a smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Fine," Henry said, pushing a ledger into his hands. "We have some new shipments to catalog. Begin with the rear shelf. And don't forget to stamp on the edition marking this time."

James took the ledger, his hands shaking. Reality was hitting him hard and fast. He was in a moment before he'd ever been alive; he was talking to people he'd lost.

As the day went on, James found it surprisingly easy to settle into the rhythm of the shop. He and his father worked side by side, exchanging occasional banter. For a brief moment, it felt like James had been given a gift: a chance to know the man his father had been before life's hardships took their toll.

But the idyll didn't last.

And so that evening, as he sits in his room trying to decipher the inscription on the clock, he hears Thomas and Henry in a heated argument.

"You can't just let him walk away from this!" Thomas insisted.

"He's a grown man, Dad. He can make his own choices," Henry replied.

"Choices have consequences, Henry," Thomas said. "You know what's at stake!"

James froze. Their voices faded, and his mind raced. What were they talking about? Was it connected to the clock?

Before he could think further, his room began to shimmer. The air grew thick, and the same vertigo he'd felt before hit him. He tried to grab the clock, but it was too late.

When the disorientation faded, James found himself standing in the same room—but it was no longer his. The furniture was modern, the typewriter replaced by a laptop, and the shelves were lined with sleek electronics instead of books.

Panic rose in his chest as he realized something was wrong. He rushed outside, but the street was unfamiliar. A towering skyscraper loomed where the bookstore had once stood, its glass façade reflecting a futuristic cityscape.

James's chest tightened. This wasn't just a different time—it was a different world entirely. The clock had shifted something in the past, and now the present was unrecognizable.

He needed answers. But first, he needed to find the clock. Without it, he might be trapped in this altered timeline forever.