The Girl Who Fell Through Time

Esmé had only intended to browse the dusty shelves of Timeless Treasures for a quirky centerpiece—something to distract from the fact that she’d be spending Valentine’s Day single again.

Instead, she walked out with an antique clock and a note tucked inside that read: Set to midnight. Wind twice. Fall in love.

“Ha. Cute,” she muttered, setting the clock on her mantle. But boredom (and a second glass of wine) convinced her to follow the instructions.

The clock chimed midnight, and in a blink, her IKEA-furnished apartment dissolved into cobblestone streets bathed in moonlight.

She was no longer in Brooklyn. The Eiffel Tower twinkled in the distance, and the air smelled faintly of pastries and questionable life choices.

A man barreled into her, sending her sprawling. “Mille pardons!” he gasped, helping her up. His paint-splattered clothes suggested starving artist, but his eyes—warm, mischievous, and entirely too charming—screamed trouble.

“I’m Jacques,” he grinned. “You’re… not from around here, are you?”

Biggest understatement of the decade.

Over absinthe and conversations that unfolded like old pages, Esmé learned Jacques was talented, penniless, and one unpaid rent away from moving back in with his maman. Naturally, she couldn’t resist meddling.

“You should paint the Can-Can dancers,” she suggested, then paused, an idea sparking. “But not the old-fashioned kind. Mix it up—flappers doing the Can-Can. Imagine the wild energy of the Moulin Rouge colliding with the jazz clubs of Montmartre. Ruffled skirts meet fringe and beads. It’ll be the sensation of Paris.”

He looked skeptical but desperate. “Flappers doing the Can-Can? That’s… absurd.”

“Exactly,” Esmé grinned. “Absurd sells.”

The next morning, he showed up at the cabaret with his easel. By week’s end, he was the it artist of Montmartre, known for his bold fusion of Belle Époque tradition and Jazz Age rebellion. By month’s end, his paintings were selling faster than croissants at dawn.

And by the time Esmé realized her meddling had consequences, Paris looked… different. The Eiffel Tower had been painted polka-dot pink (“Jacques said it needed flair”), flapper fashion now included fanny packs, and, weirdest of all, the baguette had been replaced by something called the croissandwich.

History had definitely been tampered with.

Worse, she’d fallen for Jacques. Hard.

But love wasn’t supposed to be like this—plucked out of time, caught between centuries.

She wasn’t sure what scared her more: leaving Jacques behind or staying and becoming part of a life that wasn’t hers to live.

“I can’t stay,” she confessed one evening, as they watched the sunset bleed over the Seine. “I’m from… another time.”

Jacques chuckled, brushing a paint-streaked curl from her face. “Time is just a canvas, chérie. You paint your own masterpiece.”

It sounded romantic. And for a heartbeat—a single, dangerous heartbeat—Esmé considered it.

She imagined waking up to the scent of paint and fresh bread, spending days wrapped in laughter and absinthe.

But love tied to stolen time wasn’t love she could trust. And croissandwiches? A crime against carbs.

So, with a heavy heart (and a promise from Jacques to never paint the Eiffel Tower again), she wound the clock twice and returned to her apartment.

It felt emptier than she remembered. The silence stretched, unfamiliar and heavy. She sighed, glancing at the antique clock, wondering if it had all been a strange dream.

But something was different.

Tucked beside the clock was a fresh painting: The Girl Who Fell Through Time, signed Jacques, 1924.

And beneath it, a note in Jacques’ familiar scrawl: Set to midnight. Wind twice. Fall in love… again?

Esmé traced the edges of the painting, her heart fluttering like a page caught in the wind.

Maybe—just maybe—the clock wasn’t just a relic. Maybe Jacques had figured out how to leave his mark, not just on canvas, but on time itself.

She smiled. Maybe history wasn’t the only thing worth rewriting.

What would you do if you found a clock that could send you back in time? ⏰

✨ Would you risk altering history for love ❤️, or let fate unfold as it should?

Share your thoughts in the comments 💬, and if you enjoyed this whimsical journey through time, don’t forget to leave a like ❤️ and follow and share.

If you had the chance to rewrite history… would you? 💕

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