A Love Across Time

Opening: The Clockmaker’s Secret

In the gentle dusk of Dublin, Georgia, Emily Carter walked briskly down Main Street, her worn leather satchel bouncing on her hip. The sleepy town seemed unchanged by time, but Emily’s heart whispered of years beyond her own. She was a historian ... by passion more than profession ... chasing stories lost to dust and rumor. Her favorite haunt was Caldwell's Antiques, a cluttered shop of ticking clocks, faded photographs, and secrets kept in glass cases.

She pushed open the door, the bell’s jingle announcing her arrival. The air smelled of old paper and polished wood.

“Emily, back for more mysteries?” chuckled Mr. Caldwell, a spry man with silver hair and knowing eyes.

“I found another letter,” Emily replied, her voice tinged with excitement. “It mentions General James Longstreet and a clockmaker who worked for him in the 1860s. I think he lived here.”

Caldwell’s gaze softened. “Longstreet, the Southern general? And a clockmaker, you say? There’s a grandfather clock in the back ... never kept good time, but it’s been here since my father’s day. He always said it was special.”

Emily’s curiosity burned. She followed Caldwell to the rear of the shop, past towers of books and porcelain dolls, to a tall, stately clock. Its face was etched with swirling patterns and the name “A. Carter, 1863.” Her heartbeat quickened.

“Carter… That was my great-great-grandfather’s name.” Emily reached out, her fingers trembling.

She pushed on a panel below the clock face ... something she’d seen in her ancestor’s journal. The wood slid aside, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside, wrapped in oilskin, was a brass key and a note: “For the one who seeks the truth of time, find me where the river bends, and history will bend with you.”

Emily’s world tilted. She had always chased the past, but now, it seemed, the past was reaching for her.

Inciting Incident: A Leap Through History

At midnight, beneath a harvest moon, Emily stood by the Oconee River, the antique clock beside her, the brass key clutched in her hand. She read the note again, then inserted the key into a small, invisible slot at the base of the clock. The air shimmered with anticipation.

As the clock struck twelve, its chimes grew deeper, echoing like cannon fire. A gust of wind whipped around her. The world blurred ... colors smeared, sounds faded, and then, with a jolt, Emily was standing in damp grass, the river wild and untamed beside her. Campfires flickered in the distance. Horses stamped and men in gray uniforms moved through the shadows.

“Who goes there?” a stern voice demanded.

Emily turned, heart pounding. A tall man approached, his bearing proud but his eyes weary. She recognized him instantly ... General James Longstreet, his likeness etched in her memory from daguerreotypes and history books.

“I ... I’m lost,” Emily stammered, struggling to steady her voice.

Longstreet studied her, suspicion and curiosity mingling in his gaze. “Not many women wander these parts at night, especially not alone. What brings you here?”

Emily’s mind raced. Honesty warred with caution. “I was… searching for someone. My ancestor, Alexander Carter. He was a clockmaker.”

The general’s stern expression softened. “Carter? The man who fixed my father’s watch. You have his eyes, Miss…?”

“Carter. Emily Carter.”

He tipped his hat. “General James Longstreet, at your service. Come. The night is no place for you alone.”

As she followed him through the soft Georgia night, Emily realized she was no longer an observer of history. She was living it.

Days slipped by, Emily hidden among the camp’s nurses and cooks, her story accepted as a distant cousin of the general’s trusted clockmaker. She tended to the wounded, mended uniforms, and learned the rhythm of a world at war. But it was her conversations with Longstreet that filled her thoughts and heart.

One evening by the fire, Longstreet shared his worries:

“I have seen too much loss, Emily. Each decision weighs heavier than the last. Sometimes, I wish I could turn back time and choose differently.” He gazed into the flames.

Emily’s voice was gentle. “If you could change one thing, what would it be?”

“I would have cherished my moments of peace more dearly,” he replied, meeting her eyes.

Another night, they walked along the moonlit river:

“Why do you care so much about clocks?” Longstreet asked, his voice light.

Emily smiled. “Clocks are about moments, not hours. They remind us that time is precious ... each second a chance for something meaningful.”

He stopped, turning to face her. “And what meaning do you find in this moment?”

“You,” she whispered.

The silence between them was filled with longing. Longstreet reached out, his hand warm around hers.

As summer deepened, their affection blossomed ... stolen glances, secret meetings, the shared hope of souls who found one another against all odds. Longstreet, the stoic warrior, became tender in Emily’s presence. She, a woman out of time, discovered in him a kindred spirit: wounded, yet unwavering.

But the world pressed in. Rumors of an upcoming battle reached the camp. Tension soared. Emily felt history’s gravity ... the knowledge that Longstreet’s decisions would impact thousands. She longed to warn him, to change the course of suffering, but feared the consequences of altering time.

One evening, as thunder rolled in the distance, they argued:

“James, you don’t have to lead them into that valley. There are other ways,” Emily pleaded.

Longstreet’s face was shadowed. “You know more than you say, Emily. Are you not who you claim?”

Tears pricked her eyes. “I can’t tell you everything. If I do, I might destroy the future itself.”

He stepped closer, frustration and fear warring in his expression. “Is our love, too, a trick of time? Will you vanish as suddenly as you arrived?”

Emily’s voice broke. “My heart is real. But I don’t belong here. Not forever.”

A storm broke over the camp, matching their turmoil. Emily knew she could not stay without risking everything ... his fate, her own, and the countless lives chained to history’s path.

The night before the battle, Emily and Longstreet met one last time beneath the clockmaker’s tree, where Alexander Carter was said to have crafted his finest work. Rain fell softly, mingling with their tears.

“Emily,” Longstreet said quietly, “if you must go, let it be by your choice ... not fear.”

She reached for his hand, memorizing its strength. “I love you, James. Across centuries, across wars. I wish I could stay.”

He brushed a wet lock from her cheek. “If time is kind, perhaps we will find each other again. But know this ... no matter the century, my heart is yours.”

A sudden brilliance flared ... Emily’s clock key, glowing with an unearthly light, called her back. Their lips met, brief and fierce, a promise sealed by fate. As the world spun, Emily whispered, “I’ll come back for you.”

Then she was gone.

Emily awoke in the antique shop, the clock chiming softly. The note was gone, but in her palm, she found a new letter ... aged paper, Longstreet’s unmistakable script:

“My dearest Emily,

If you hold this letter, then time has brought you home. Do not mourn what we have lost, but cherish what we have shared. Know that your love changed me ... gave me hope through the darkest night. And if history allows, perhaps one day, you will find your way to me again.

Ever yours,

James”

Tears fell unchecked as Emily pressed the letter to her heart. She returned to the riverbank, year after year, seeking a sign, a shimmer in the air, dreaming of a miracle. She wrote of her journey, of love found and lost, of a general who taught her that history was not only made of battles, but of hearts brave enough to cross the boundaries of time.

Decades later, Emily’s story became legend ... a tale whispered among clockmakers and lovers, a song for lost souls yearning to find each other across the ages. Some said that on moonlit nights, if you listened by the river’s bend, you might hear a clock chime where no clock stands, and feel the gentle brush of a love that defied even time itself.

And so, in every tick of every clock, the memory lingered: a love across time, undimmed, eternal.

Julia O’Hara 2025

THANK YOU for reading my work. I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or Coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Peru and heading to Chile in a few days and from there, who knows? I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.

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