**The Stranger**
By the time the morning tea break began at ten sharp, Oliver was late, finishing a report on PPE usage across the factory sites. Realising no one had left him any water, he grabbed the kettle and headed to the washroom.
Beneath his feet, the old floorboards flexed softly under layers of modern linoleumhed stepped into the older part of the building. Behind the sleek plasterboard walls lay faded green paint from the 1950s, and beneath that, narrow, deep-red bricks stamped with the year 1892, though few in the London office block ever noticed. Oliver, however, knew its history. Once just two storeys tall, the building had gained three more floors in the Fifties and two wings in the Sixties, where his own office now sat. His mother had mentioned that somewhere in these halls, his great-grandmother Eleanorshe couldnt recall her maiden namehad once worked. He dearly hoped shed been in one of the offices or shops, not the infamous high-end brothel, *The Imperial*, which had occupied the very corridor he passed daily.
Filling the kettle, he stepped out of the washroom and
There she was. A stunning woman in a long beige dress, chestnut hair pinned neatly at her nape, shoulders poised, sharp brown eyes scanning her surroundings. Oliver drowned in those eyes, stumbling as he passed, sloshing water. He stared openly, then flushed and looked away.
She was nearly beside him now.
*Sod it. If she doesnt look away in three seconds, Ill talk to her.* Heart pounding, he fixed his gaze on hersomething hed never dared do before.
Her face was round, with delicate features: low brows, a small nose, narrow lips. But thenshe swept past him, leaving only a whisper of perfume, and vanished into the ladies.
His stolen breath returned slowly, the magic of the moment fading.
*Wait for her to come out?* He lingered, glancing back every few steps, but no one emerged.
*Who was she?* Back at his desk, forgetting to switch the kettle on, he wondered. The new executive secretary, maybe? Too beautiful. Hed ask ITthey knew everything.
Work swallowed his day. Yet at lunch and again that evening, he searched the crowds for a glimpse of beige.
On Tuesday at ten, Oliver loitered by the washroom, kettle in hand. She never appeared. Nor Wednesday. Nor Thursday.
Desperate, he spent his entire lunch break near the exitbut she never left.
*Why would the CEOs secretary, based on the fourth floor, come down here?* Unless it was a one-off. Or she was a visitor. The latter thought stungit meant he might never see her again. But the first theory? Worth chasing.
*Hey*, he messaged Paul from IT, *seen the new exec secretary?*
*Yeah. Set her PC up last Monday.*
*Last Monday!* His pulse spiked.
*Pretty?*
*Course. They dont hire ugly ones. Proper ice queen, though. Names Charlotte Whitmore. Pics in her email profile.*
Hands damp, he searched *Charlotte Whitmore*. One result. He clicked, bracing himself.
A smiling blonde with cool blue eyes stared back.
His hope shattered.
*Fine.* He forced himself to forget her.
*So?* Paul prodded.
*Alright*, he replied absently. Then an idea struck: *Youve got corridor cam access, yeah?*
*Want a live peek?*
*Not quite. Saw a girl last Monday. Gorgeous. Thought she was the secretary. Turns out no. Any idea who?*
*Later. Busy now.*
Waiting was agony. The woman in beige haunted him, his heart pounding like a schoolboys. *Pathetic.*
Finally, Paul called him over.
*When was it?*
*Last Monday, ten-fifteen-ish. Came from the main stairs, went into the ladies.*
Footage rolled. Oliver watched himself enter, then exit the washroom. Thenhe froze, staring at empty space, before shuffling off.
Paul raised a brow. *And?*
*Rewind. Where I come out.*
Ten-seventeen.
*Slow it down.*
The playback stuttered.
*Stop!*
A faint shadow flickered between Oliver and the wall.
*Whats that?* Paul squinted.
*Nothing. Close it.*
*Wheres the girl?*
*In my head, apparently.* Oliver left a bar of Dairy Milk on Pauls desk, then paused. *Waitcheck today, same time.*
They scoured two weeks of footage.
*No one*, Paul concluded.
*Cheers. Mustve imagined it.* But Olivers hands shook. That shadow *had* moved toward the ladies. Every Monday at ten-seventeen. Why couldnt he see her again?
*Get a girlfriend, you nutter*, Paul joked.
*Found her. The best.*
Oliver studied the tarnished teaspoon in his hand, its ornate handle half-worn. A family heirloom, passed down for who knew how long. Hed brought it to work last Monday to scrub off dried cakeand that was the day hed seen her.
The next Monday, spoon clutched tight, he waited.
Thenshe appeared.
Heart lurching, he watched her glide past and, with a practised motion, vanish *through* the wall where a door once stood.
The spoon worked.
What if he used more?
The effect was staggering. As she neared, the past bled into the present: plasterboard became dark green damask, linoleum gave way to polished parquet. The click of her heeled shoes echoed, mingling with distant horse hooves and murmured conversations he couldnt quite catch.
And herflawless from afar, now human. Powder caked her skin, her mascara smudged, her dress dust-stained. Yet these flaws only stoked his desire.
Every Monday, he walked beside her, soaking in the past. He learned the buildings secrets, heard the men gossiping about Madame Zizi. But recording it was futileonly he could see.
And he fell deeper in love. He stared openly now, tracing her curves, aching to touch. His hands passed through herbut *almost* connected. If he just tweaked the *right* thing…
He scavenged more relics: forks, plates, photos. Only the spoons worked.
Then his mother handed him a book*A Concise Geography of England*, 1912.
*Mum found it in a skip.*
The moment he touched it, he knew.
Monday came. As she approached, the world shifted. The parquet solid beneath him, her startled gaze locked onto his.
He seized her wrist. *I love you. Im from the future. Marry me.*
She recoiled, wrenching free. He chased her outside, onto cobbles slick with rain.
*Stop!* he begged.
She stumbled. A carriage horse reared
One sickening crunch.
Then silence.
Oliver was gone. Only the spoons clattered on stone, the book splayed in dust.
A constable picked it up. *Bloody students.*
The evening paper ran a brief notice: *Miss Eleanor Fairchild, 27, died after a horse collision on Regent Street. Witnesses claim she fled a strangely dressed pursuer, who vanished post-incident. Miss Fairchild had sought employment at Meyerson & Co. but entered a brothel by mistake.*
Back in the office, Olivers boss frowned. *Wheres that stationery report?*
*What report?*
*I asked for it by two.*
*No, you didnt.*
*But* The boss hesitated. *Isnt there a spare desk here?*
*Yes. Were shorthanded.*
Shaking his head, the boss left, certain hed assigned the task to *someone*.
