The Echoes of Time

Martin Wells’ study looked like a bomb went off. Stacks of old physics journals and coffee-stained blueprints tumbled around him, all bathed in the sort of weak lamplight that makes everything feel faintly haunted. He sat there, jittery as hell, about to flip on his time machine. Imagine that: a lifetime tinkering with equations, chasing the wildest idea—then suddenly you’re sittin’ right on the edge of it. Just another Tuesday? Not even close.

He’d picked November 23, 1963. Big date, giant moment. JFK, Dallas, the day that cracked America wide open. Maybe Martin could stop it. Maybe he’d just gawk at history changing in real-time. The guy could hardly breathe as he bashed in a set of ancient, clunky coordinates and zipped himself inside the humming, chrome monstrosity he called “the machine.” Not exactly a Hollywood rig, but, hey. It worked.

Flash-bang! Suddenly he’s smack in the middle of ‘60s Dallas, all horn blasts, polyester, and a sky that looks hand-painted. He’s barely getting his bearings—soaking in the faces, the energy, the vibe—when, boom, he screws up the very thing he came to witness. Guess what? Wrong street, wrong time, and suddenly he’s right in the way of the President’s motorcade. Pure chaos. Sirens, people screaming—a beautiful mess. And JFK? Saved. Alive. Total game-changer.

For about five seconds, Martin thinks he’s nailed it. He’s a hero! Except, yeah, history’s a jerk that way. Because the ripples hit fast and ugly. Civil rights movement? Stalls out without its tragic fuel. Vietnam drags on even harder, refusing to let go. Instead of fixing things, he’s somehow broken the stitches that held the whole story together. Everything—America, the world—just feels...off. Lopsided. Like a song with the wrong chorus.

So Martin freaks (who wouldn’t?) and bolts through Dallas, ghosting around like some guilty tourist. He ducks into alleyways, hoping to find his way back to the correct “when.” But his precious time machine? Utterly smoked. Power’s dead, hopes circling the drain.

Now he’s desperate. He ends up confiding in this smart, glasses-askew journalist named Claire Adams. She’s got nose for weirdness and patience for chaos, and—let’s be real—Martin is nothing but chaos at this point. He feeds her a half-baked “I need to get to a meeting” story, but she sees right through him. Still, she helps him out, dragging him through the underbelly of Dallas’ archivist scene, historians wired on cigarettes and anxiety as they prep for JFK commemoration stuff. The whole time, Martin’s guts twist tighter—he catches glimpses of people who shouldn’t even exist, lives blurred by a future he’s trashed.

Days blur. Claire and Martin figure out each other’s quirks; she cracks sarcastic jokes, he stammers and sweats over alternators or whatever piece of makeshift junk might juice his machine. But history? Man, it waits for no one. Conspiracy chatter brews in the background, like static.

Soon enough, the clock’s out. Martin comes up with a wild plan: he’ll make sure the assassination actually happens, brutal as that is. History wants its pound of flesh, and somebody’s got to pay.

Anniversary rolls around. Martin hovers at Dealey Plaza, gut punched by the weight in the air, every shadow sharp. Just as he’s about to light the fuse—literally, start the device—Claire barrels toward him, out of breath and furious.

"Stop! Seriously, you can’t just let history eat itself. We’re smarter than this—we can try something else!"

But Martin—red-eyed, strung out—just shakes his head. “If I don’t, everything gets worse. Someone has to let the past be ugly, even if it sucks. That’s the gig.”

Claire’s tough; she gets it, eventually. “Yeah. You’re right—sort of. We live with it, don’t we? Learn from it, or whatever.”

Then, with a sad little grin, Martin hits the button. The whole world shatters into white, and—poof—he’s back in his wrecked study, alone. Dealey Plaza, JFK, Claire—poof, all gone.

Everything’s changed, maybe better, probably not, but it feels...familiar. Or as familiar as it can get after you’ve twisted the spine of time itself. Martin sucks in a shaky breath and thinks, man, some things are meant to hurt, and that’s how we move forward. He’ll carry that, with all its scars, for the rest of his days. But maybe that’s how you know you tried to do something good—even when everything goes to hell.