A Different Kind of Time Travel
After my first portal closed in 2025, I thought the journey was over. I had made peace with the past — or so I believed. Life in Dudley started to feel more grounded. I had purpose, connection, and clarity. But the soul is funny — it remembers things you’ve never seen, misses people you’ve never met. That longing came quietly, in dreams and passing thoughts.
It wasn’t just my life I had needed to revisit — it was the world before me, the life my family had before I arrived. That pull was different. Not to fix anything. Just… to understand.
That’s when the second portal appeared.
The Hidden Passage to 1986
It began in Kraków. I had returned for a short visit in 2025, revisiting old haunts from my 2008–2012 years. One evening, walking through a courtyard near an old apartment block — one my family once lived in — I saw something strange: a rusted gate that had never been there before. Behind it, a staircase that sloped down and curved unnaturally.
With my heart thudding, I walked through.
When I opened my eyes again, I knew this wasn’t my Kraków. It was colder. Quieter. The walls were greyer. There were fewer cars, more whispers. And on a newspaper stand nearby, the date hit me: October 1986.
Living on the Edge of My Own Past
I wasn’t born yet. My parents were young adults—just starting to fall in love, though they didn’t know it would lead to me. And I was now living just a few streets away from them.
But here’s the twist: something about the portal wouldn’t let me see them directly. I could never get too close. Every time I tried, something interfered — a stranger blocking my view, a phone call distracting me, or a strange nausea that forced me to turn away. It was like the timeline protected itself, keeping me at the edge of existence.
So, I did the next best thing.
The People Around Them
I got to know their world:
-
My mother’s neighbor, a fiery old woman who sold cigarettes from under her coat and warned everyone about the coming change.
-
My father’s friend from university, who played guitar in the park and wrote poems about freedom.
-
My aunt as a teenager, bold and hilarious, sneaking into dance clubs in her cousin’s shoes.
I listened to their stories — sometimes about my parents, sometimes just about life. I learned how small joys kept them alive: music on cassette tapes, secret gardens, homemade pierogi on Sundays. I helped with shopping, fixed radios, translated foreign news. Slowly, I became a silent thread in the fabric of their lives.
One day, someone said to me, “You remind me of someone. I can’t put my finger on it.” I smiled and said nothing.
The Quiet Ache of Nearness
There was one moment I won’t forget: Christmas Eve, 1989. Snow fell quietly outside, and I stood across the street from my grandparents' apartment. Inside, the lights were glowing. I could see shadows — laughter, warmth, tradition. I knew my parents were in there, together, unaware of the life they would one day create.
I wanted so badly to knock on the door. To tell them they’d be okay. That one day, they’d have a daughter who would love them fiercely.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I stood in the snow and whispered, “I’m here.”
1990: The Portal Closes
In spring 1990, something changed. The world was shifting—communism had fallen, the air felt charged with hope and uncertainty. I knew this was the year I would be born. The closer it got to my birthday, the heavier everything felt. The portal buzzed differently, humming with finality.
Then, one morning, I woke up and the world was still. The streets of 1990 Kraków faded, and I was back in 2025.
The gate was gone.
I cried—not out of sadness, but out of a strange love. A love for a time that made me, and for people I’d known without them knowing me.
What That Time Gave Me
That journey taught me something the first portal hadn’t: identity is not just about memory — it’s about empathy. Seeing the lives around my birth, the choices and struggles that led to me, I felt more rooted. More complete.
Even though I couldn’t speak to my parents in that time, I understood them better. Their fears, their resilience, their love — all of it made sense. I had walked the streets they walked, heard the same church bells, watched the same skies.
And more than anything, I had discovered that sometimes, presence alone is powerful. You don’t always need to intervene. Sometimes being a witness is enough.
Where I Am Now
Back in the present, I carry those years in my chest like a second heartbeat. I’ve started recording everything—my visits, my memories, the names of the people I met. Maybe one day, I’ll tell my future children what I saw. Maybe they’ll walk their own timelines one day.
And though the portals are closed now, I still walk the streets of Kraków and Dudley, looking for signs, listening for echoes. Sometimes, in the hush of twilight, I hear familiar voices — not in my ears, but in my bones.
To anyone reading this: if you ever feel lost, or like your story began in a world you can’t quite remember, know this — you are the result of love, courage, and countless unseen moments. And somewhere, in the quiet folds of time, your past is watching you too. 💫
No comments:
Post a Comment