Love Across Time

Love Across Time

Eleanor Carter never believed in fate. Love, to her, was a matter of choice—something shaped by effort, not by destiny. But that belief was shattered the day she found the letter.

It had been tucked away in the hidden compartment of an antique desk she had purchased at an old bookshop in London. The letter was yellowed with age, its edges brittle, but the handwriting was bold and familiar.

Her own.

Shaking, Eleanor unfolded the parchment and read the first line:

October 14, 1892My dearest Henry,If you are reading this, it means our time is not yet over.

Her breath hitched. The date was impossible. She wasn’t even alive in 1892. And yet, the words felt undeniably hers. The letter continued, filled with emotions so raw, so desperate, it sent chills down her spine. It spoke of stolen moments, whispered promises, and a love lost to the cruelty of time itself.

A name stood out among the words. Henry Lancaster.

The name meant nothing to her. And yet, deep in her bones, it felt like it should.

Determined to uncover the truth, Eleanor dug through old records, tracing the name back to a man who had lived in Victorian London—a writer whose works had been forgotten by history. Henry Lancaster had vanished in 1892, under circumstances that remained a mystery.

The more she read, the more she felt a strange connection to him. It was as if the echoes of a life she had never lived whispered in the back of her mind. Memories that weren’t hers.

And then, she found it.

Tucked away in a forgotten archive, an unpublished novel by Henry Lancaster, written the same year he disappeared. As she turned the pages, her heart pounded. The story was about a woman. A woman named Eleanor.

The details were too precise. Her favorite book. The scar on her wrist. The way she always tucked her hair behind her ear when nervous.

It was her.

Eleanor had never been one to believe in reincarnation. But the weight of the evidence was crushing. Had she loved him once, in another life? Had they been torn apart by time itself?

A single line in the novel made her breath catch:

“If love is eternal, then time is merely an obstacle to be overcome.”

Was it possible? Could love truly defy time?

The final pages held a clue—a location, a date in two days’ time, at midnight, under the clock tower in Covent Garden.

A meeting that had never happened.

A meeting that was never meant to happen.

When the night arrived, Eleanor stood beneath the old clock tower, her pulse racing. The streets of London hummed with life, unaware of the impossible moment unfolding.

She almost laughed at herself. This was ridiculous. Chasing the ghost of a man long gone? And yet, a part of her knew she had to be there.

The clock struck twelve.

A gust of wind swept through the square, carrying with it the scent of old parchment and something strangely familiar. And then—

A voice behind her. Soft. Hopeful. Disbelieving.

“Eleanor?”

Her heart stopped.

Slowly, she turned. And there, standing before her, was a man in a Victorian-style coat, his hazel eyes locked onto hers as if seeing a miracle.

As if seeing a lost love returned.

Time stood still.

Because some love stories never truly end.