The next morning, Dany called in sick to work. Finding John's journal was more important than shelving books or manning the register. She dressed quickly, tucking John's note carefully into her pocket like a talisman.
Belgrave Square was in one of London's most exclusive neighborhoods, lined with elegant white townhouses that had barely changed in over a century. As Dany walked along the perimeter of the central garden, she checked the house numbers against her map. Number 17 stood on the east side of the square, its façade freshly painted, windows gleaming in the morning sun.
A small brass plaque beside the door indicated it was now home to a prestigious law firm. Dany hesitated on the sidewalk, suddenly realizing the flaw in her plan. She couldn't exactly walk in and announce she was looking for a journal hidden in 1887.
As she stood contemplating her next move, the door opened and a woman in a tailored suit emerged, speaking rapidly on her mobile phone. She held the door open with her foot as she searched for something in her bag, giving Dany a split-second decision.
Heart pounding, Dany slipped past her into the building.
The interior had been modernized—the original grand staircase remained, but the walls were now adorned with contemporary art, and a sleek reception desk stood where a parlor might once have been. A young receptionist looked up as Dany entered.
"Good morning. Do you have an appointment?"
"I'm here to see..." Dany's mind raced. "I'm actually a historian researching the architectural history of Belgrave Square. I was hoping to look at some of the original features of the building."
The receptionist looked skeptical. "I'm not sure that would be possible without prior arrangement. This is a working office."
"Of course, I understand," Dany said quickly. "Perhaps I could just see the main staircase? It's a remarkable example of Victorian craftsmanship."
After a moment's hesitation, the receptionist nodded. "I suppose that would be alright. Just the staircase and entrance hall, though. The partners wouldn't appreciate someone wandering around."
"Thank you," Dany said, relief washing over her. "I won't be long."
She moved to the staircase, pretending to examine the ornate banisters while her mind worked furiously. The guest room where she had spoken with John would have been on the upper floor, but there was no way she could get up there without being stopped.
As she ran her hand along the polished wood, a memory flashed in her mind—not from her recent experience, but something else. A hidden alcove beneath the stairs, a small door disguised as a panel in the wainscoting. She had no idea how she knew this, but the image was crystal clear.
Glancing at the receptionist, who was now absorbed in a phone call, Dany moved to the side of the staircase. There, just as in her vision, was a decorative panel that looked slightly different from the others. She pressed it gently, and to her amazement, it clicked and swung inward, revealing a small storage space.
Heart racing, Dany reached into the dark recess. Her fingers touched something wrapped in cloth, tucked into the farthest corner. She pulled it out quickly and slipped it into her bag just as the receptionist finished her call.
"Find what you were looking for?" the young woman asked.
"Yes, thank you," Dany replied, trying to keep her voice steady. "The craftsmanship is remarkable. I appreciate your time."
Outside, Dany walked several blocks before stopping at a small café. With trembling hands, she ordered a coffee and found a quiet corner table. Only then did she open her bag and unwrap her discovery.
It was a leather-bound journal, the cover worn with age but still intact. The pages had yellowed, and the ink had faded to a sepia tone, but the handwriting was unmistakably the same as on the note—elegant, flowing script that spoke of a different era.
On the first page was a simple inscription: "Property of Dr. John Ambrose, 1885."
Dany's coffee grew cold as she read, completely absorbed in John's words. The journal began as a typical doctor's diary—notes on patients, medical observations, reflections on his practice. But several months in, the entries changed dramatically.
*April 3, 1885 – The most extraordinary thing has happened. I scarcely believe it myself, though I have now experienced it twice. The wardrobe I purchased from that strange shop on Brewer Street appears to possess impossible properties. When I entered it last night, seeking a moment of quiet reflection, I found myself transported to another time and place entirely. I was still in London, but everything had changed. Horseless carriages moved at incredible speeds. People wore the most bizarre clothing. And the noise! The lights! It was like something from Mr. Wells' scientific romances, yet it was real.*
*April 7, 1885 – It happened again. This time I remained in the future world longer—nearly a full day. I spoke with people who seemed to find nothing unusual about my presence, though I must have appeared strange in my attire. They called the year 2010. Over a century hence! I must be going mad, and yet everything I saw and touched felt utterly real.*
Dany's heart pounded as she read. John had experienced the same phenomenon, but in reverse—traveling from his time to the future. As she continued reading, the entries became more focused on a particular aspect of his travels.
*May 19, 1885 – I saw her again today. The woman with the amber eyes who appears in every time I visit. Sometimes she knows me, sometimes she does not. Today she called me by name before I introduced myself. When I asked how she knew me, she laughed and said, "You told me yesterday." But I had not seen her in weeks. Time moves differently between our worlds, it seems.*
*June 2, 1885 – I begin to understand now. It is not random, these journeys. There is a pattern, a purpose. The wardrobe is showing me moments where our paths intersect. She—Dany, she calls herself—is somehow connected to me across time. I feel I have known her all my life, though in truth we have met only a handful of times, and each time is both the first and the thousandth meeting.*
Dany's hands trembled as she turned the pages. John had been experiencing these time jumps for years before she had ever entered the wardrobe. And he had been meeting versions of her throughout his journeys.
The final entry was dated April 16, 1887—the day before she had arrived in Victorian London.
*Tomorrow she will come again. The wardrobe has shown me this. She will not remember me, as always at first. How many times must we play this scene? How many times must I watch recognition fade from her eyes, only to build our connection anew? The wardrobe's purpose remains elusive, but I am certain now that Dany is the key. Somehow, our fates are intertwined across time itself. I have hidden this journal where I know she will eventually find it. Perhaps in reading my experiences, she will remember sooner this time.*
Dany closed the journal, her mind reeling. John had been living with this phenomenon much longer than she had. He had met her multiple times, in different eras. But she had no memory of these encounters—or did she? The strange familiarity she felt toward him, the inexplicable longing, the flashes of places she'd never been...
Her phone buzzed with a text from Liz: *Where are you? Mark is furious.*
Reality crashed back in. She had a life here—a job, friends, responsibilities. But now there was John too, waiting for her across time.
Dany returned to her apartment, the journal clutched tightly in her bag. The wardrobe stood as it had before, silent and imposing. Would it take her back to John tonight? Or would it send her somewhere—somewhen—else entirely?
As evening fell, Dany sat cross-legged on the floor, reading more of John's journal. His entries revealed a man of science struggling to reconcile his rational mind with an impossible experience. A man gradually falling in love with a woman he met across different times and places. A man who began to believe there was a greater purpose to their connection.
The more she read, the more certain Dany became that she needed to go back. She needed to find John again, to understand what was happening to them both.
As midnight approached, she changed into simple clothes—jeans and a t-shirt that wouldn't look too outlandish in most eras—and stood before the wardrobe. The carvings seemed to shift in the dim light, patterns flowing like water.
"Take me to him," she whispered, placing her hand on the door.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, a warm glow began to emanate from within. The doors creaked open of their own accord, revealing not the empty interior but a swirling vortex of light.
Dany took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The sensation was different this time—less violent, more like sinking into warm water. Colors swirled around her, but the pain was absent. She had the strange feeling that the wardrobe was responding to her intention, guiding her journey rather than flinging her randomly through time.
When the world solidified around her again, Dany found herself standing in a sunlit garden. The air was fragrant with roses and lavender. Stone paths wound between carefully tended flower beds, and a fountain burbled peacefully at the center.
She was wearing a light summer dress, the fabric finer than anything she owned. Her hair was styled differently too—she could feel the weight of it piled atop her head, with a few curls framing her face.
A quick glance around revealed a large country house in the distance—a Victorian manor of red brick and white trim. Several people strolled the grounds or sat on benches, the women in elegant day dresses, the men in summer suits. A garden party of some kind, Dany realized.
"There you are, darling," a voice said behind her. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
Dany turned to find a handsome older gentleman offering his arm. He was perhaps in his fifties, with silver threading his dark hair and lines of experience around his eyes. But those eyes—a striking blue that she would recognize anywhere.
"John?" she whispered, hardly believing what she was seeing.
He smiled, but there was caution in his expression. "Are you feeling unwell, my dear? You look rather pale."
Dany realized he was speaking to her with the familiarity of a husband or fiancé. Glancing down, she saw a diamond ring on her left hand. In this time, whatever it was, they were a couple.
"I'm fine," she managed. "Just a little lightheaded from the sun."
"Let's find you some shade," he said, leading her toward a white gazebo draped with wisteria. "The doctor in me still worries about you, even after all these years."
All these years. They had a history here, a life together that she knew nothing about. Dany studied his face as they walked, noting the differences from the younger John she had met. This John was older, more weathered, but his eyes held the same intensity when they looked at her.
In the privacy of the gazebo, John's demeanor changed. He looked around quickly to ensure they were alone, then took her hands in his.
"It's happened again, hasn't it?" he asked quietly. "You don't remember this time, this place."
Dany's breath caught. "You know? About the wardrobe, the time travel?"
"Of course I know," he said, a sad smile touching his lips. "We've been through this many times, my love. Sometimes you remember our past encounters, sometimes you don't. Today, I see you don't."
"When... when is this?" Dany asked, looking around at the garden party.
"June 1912," John replied. "We're at our country home in Sussex. It's our twentieth wedding anniversary."
"Twentieth?" Dany gasped. "We've been married for twenty years?"
John nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. "In this timeline, yes. We met in London in 1890. You appeared at a medical charity ball—quite literally appeared, as I later learned. You knew me immediately, called me by name. It was my turn to be confused, as I hadn't yet experienced the wardrobe's magic."
"But you had in 1887," Dany said. "I found your journal. You'd been traveling for years before I met you."
John's eyes widened. "You found it? Already? That's... that's not how it usually happens." He looked troubled. "Time is changing around us, shifting faster than before."
Before Dany could ask what he meant, a young woman approached the gazebo. She was perhaps twenty, with John's blue eyes and a familiar tilt to her chin that Dany recognized from her own mirror.
"Mother, Father, everyone's looking for you," she said. "Uncle William wants to make a toast."
Dany stared at the young woman. Mother. This girl was her daughter—hers and John's—in this timeline.
"We'll be right there, Eleanor," John said smoothly. "Your mother needed a moment away from the crowd."
Eleanor nodded and returned to the party, casting a curious glance back at them.
"We have a daughter," Dany whispered once Eleanor was out of earshot.
"And a son," John added gently. "James is at university. He couldn't come home for the celebration."
Dany felt overwhelmed. In this time, she had built a life with John—a marriage, children, a home. Yet she had no memory of any of it.
"How do you bear it?" she asked. "Meeting versions of me who don't remember our life together?"
John's expression was one of infinite patience and sadness. "Because I love you in every time, in every version. And because I know that somewhere, somewhen, there is a version of us that breaks this cycle. That's what I believe the wardrobe is leading us toward."
A bell rang from the direction of the house, summoning guests for the toast.
"We should go," John said. "Questions will be asked if we're absent too long."
As they walked back toward the party, Dany's mind raced. This John had lived decades with her, built a family with her. He knew her in ways she couldn't imagine.
The garden party was a blur of faces and names Dany couldn't keep straight. She smiled and nodded, letting John guide her through conversations with people who clearly knew her well. She met her son-in-law, her friends, her sister-in-law. All strangers to her, yet all treating her with the familiarity of years.
During a moment alone, as John was drawn into a conversation with an old colleague, Dany noticed a young woman watching her from across the lawn. There was something familiar about her, though Dany was certain they hadn't been introduced.
The woman approached, her expression guarded. "You don't belong here," she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the party chatter.
"Excuse me?" Dany replied, startled.
"You're not her—not really. You're from another time." The woman's eyes were knowing, almost accusatory. "I've seen it before. The way you look around, confused. The way you don't recognize people you should know."
"Who are you?" Dany asked, her heart racing.
"Someone who understands more than you think," the woman replied. "The wardrobe doesn't just belong to you and John, you know. Others have found it. Used it."
Before Dany could respond, John appeared at her side, his expression tightening when he saw the young woman.
"Miss Harlow," he said coolly. "I wasn't aware you were on the guest list."
"Dr. Ambrose," the woman replied with a slight smile. "I wouldn't miss your anniversary celebration. After all, we have so much in common."
There was an undercurrent to their exchange that Dany couldn't decipher—a tension that suggested history.
"If you'll excuse us," John said, taking Dany's arm firmly. "My wife and I should attend to our other guests."
As he led her away, Dany glanced back. Miss Harlow was still watching them, a strange smile playing on her lips.
"Who is she?" Dany asked when they were out of earshot.
"Someone dangerous," John replied grimly. "Someone who wants the wardrobe for herself."
"She knows about it?"
"Yes. And she's been trying to understand its power for years." John's expression was troubled. "I should have known she'd find us here."
Before Dany could ask more questions, Eleanor approached again, this time with an older gentleman.
"Mother, Lord Blackwood was just asking about your charity work with the hospital," Eleanor said.
Dany froze, having no idea what charity work this version of herself was involved in. John squeezed her hand reassuringly.
"My wife is too modest to boast of her accomplishments," he said smoothly. "But her fundraising efforts have provided new equipment for the children's ward at St. Thomas'."
As the conversation continued, Dany felt a strange sensation—a tingling that began in her fingertips and spread up her arms. The garden around her seemed to waver slightly, like a reflection in disturbed water.
"John," she whispered urgently. "It's happening again."
Understanding immediately, John made their excuses and led her away from the party, toward a secluded part of the garden.
"It's too soon," he said, his voice tight with emotion. "We usually have more time."
"I don't want to go," Dany said, surprised by the intensity of her feeling. This life—this version of their life together—was slipping away before she'd had a chance to understand it.
"I know, my love." John held her face in his hands, his eyes memorizing her features. "But we'll find each other again. We always do."
"The woman—Miss Harlow—she said others have used the wardrobe. What did she mean?"
"Listen to me," John said urgently as the world began to blur around them. "The wardrobe is more than just a portal through time. It's trying to correct something—a fracture in time itself. That's why it brings us together, over and over."
"Correct what?" Dany asked, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.
"I don't know yet. But Miss Harlow—" The rest of his words were lost as the garden dissolved around Dany, John's face fading like a reflection in rippling water.
"John!" she cried out, trying to hold onto him, but her hands grasped only air.
The swirling vortex enveloped her again, but this time it was violent, chaotic. She was being pulled not back to her own time but somewhere else entirely. Something had interfered with the transfer—or someone.
As consciousness faded, Dany had one last glimpse of the garden. Miss Harlow stood where John had been, her hand outstretched toward Dany, her lips forming words that were lost in the void between times:
"He's not telling you everything."
____
If you're enjoying the story, don't forget to add it to your library, leave a comment, or drop a Power Stone ❤️