The Return to the Present

Amara jolted awake, the feeling of falling still vivid in her mind. For a brief moment, she believed she was back in James's world, with the faint smell of wood smoke and the distant sound of horse hooves filling her senses.

But as she opened her eyes, the loud noise of traffic and the dull, artificial light of her apartment shattered that thought. She was home. Modern, cold, and painfully ordinary.

Her head pounded as she sat up, the memories of the last few hours—or had it been days?—crashing into her like a freight train. She recalled the ruins, the swirling light of the portal, and James's face as it disappeared.

Her heart ached at the thought of him, his hand reaching out, his voice calling her name. She had left him behind. The artifact had returned her to her world, to the 21st century, leaving her alone without him.

Amara's gaze landed on her desk. There, where the artifact had been, was a faint scorch mark—dark and jagged, a physical reminder of her loss. She approached it slowly, her fingers grazing the burned wood, feeling a wave of grief so intense it nearly took her breath away. The artifact was gone, and so was James.

She collapsed into her desk chair, hiding her face in her hands. The weight of it all felt suffocating. How could she move on? How could she return to her life, knowing the man she loved was stuck in another time, waiting for her?

The next few days blurred together. Amara immersed herself in work, her university lectures a lifeline in a confusing sea. She stood in front of her students, discussing the importance of artifacts in history, but her voice lacked its usual spark. Her words felt empty, as if she were reciting lines from a play she no longer believed in.

Her coworkers noticed something was off. "Are you alright, Amara?" one asked during lunch. "You seem… distant." She forced a smile. "Just a lot going on," she said, avoiding their gaze. She couldn't explain that her mind was occupied with time travel and heartache.

Nights were even harder. Alone in her apartment, the silence felt heavy. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment with James. His smile, his voice, the way he looked at her as if she was everything. Each memory was both comforting and painful.

A week after coming back, Amara found herself in the university library, browsing through historical records on a whim. She wasn't sure what she sought—maybe a mention of James, a sign he had left behind. Anything to feel close to him. She discovered an old portrait hidden in the archives. Her breath caught as she looked at the image on the screen—Lord James Harrington, circa 1785.

The artist had made some changes, but she recognized the strong jaw, the intense gray eyes, and the confident posture. Her hands shook as she clicked on the text, eager for more details. The description was short, noting James as a reclusive lord with a peculiar interest in artifacts. It wasn't much, but it sparked a flicker of hope in her heart.

Amara spent hours digging through records, looking for anything else related to him. Finally, she found it—a letter from 1790, kept in a local archive. The letter was addressed to "A.B." Her heart raced. A.B. That had to be her.

The next day, Amara sat in the calm reading room of the city's biggest historical archive, her hands shaking as she received the delicate document. The letter was neatly folded, its edges worn with age, but the handwriting was clearly James's.

She opened it carefully, her heart racing as she read the first line. "To My Dearest A.B., If this letter reaches you, it means my efforts were not wasted…" Tears filled her eyes as she continued, each word reminding her of the man who had always believed in her.

He spoke of the artifact and his strong belief that it could bring them back together. He expressed his love for her and the emptiness her absence had caused in his life. By the time she finished with the closing line—"Yours always, James"—she was quietly crying. She held the letter close, feeling both the pain in her heart and a strange comfort. He had waited for her. He had faith in her. She was not alone in this. 

Amara left the archive feeling a new sense of determination. James's letter was more than just a love note—it was a hint. He had kept studying the artifact after she was gone, noting its features and possibilities. If he believed there was a way to bring them together, then she had to believe it too.

Back at her apartment, she laid out the letter and her notes on the desk, trying to connect everything she knew about the artifact. The burn mark on the wood seemed to taunt her at first, a reminder of her past mistakes. But now, it felt like a challenge.

Her research uncovered an amazing find. A local museum was showcasing an exhibit of rare historical items, featuring a golden disk with engravings labeled as "celestial" and "untranslatable." She gasped as she read the details. It had to be the same artifact. Against all odds, it had survived through the ages and returned to her.

Amara focused on the screen, her thoughts racing. The artifact still had a purpose in her life. It had drawn her back to the present for a reason, and now it was beckoning her once more. This was her opportunity—maybe her only one—to reconnect with James. She shut her laptop and picked up her bag, filled with determination. The artifact awaited her, and she was not going to let it escape.