It was a perfectly ordinary February morning in 2015. I was living in Lower Gornal at the time, and my routine was etched into my memory: wake up early, grab a quick bite, and head out the door by 7 AM to catch the bus from Gornal Wood bus station to work.
But this particular morning was anything but ordinary.
And the houses—at first, I couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong. Something about their façades looked off. The UPVC windows I passed every day had vanished, replaced by older sash styles. Fresh paint had dulled into peeling cream and muted greens. It was subtle, creeping, like watching paint dry in reverse. I blinked, but the illusion only deepened.
Then I saw the people.
Only a handful, but unmistakably out of time. A man in a flat cap and thick wool coat cycled past on a heavy-framed bike. A woman with victory rolls tucked beneath a headscarf walked briskly, a wicker basket on her arm. Another stood at a doorway, sweeping the front step with a stiff broom, clad in a patterned housecoat.
There were no modern cars on the street—just a quiet that felt deeper than usual. The whole neighbourhood was hushed, like it was holding its breath.
And there were no buses.
Not a single one. The roads were empty, the usual traffic that made me quicken my step completely absent. I stood at the edge of the bus station, staring, half-expecting a vehicle to materialise and bring everything back to normal.
But nothing came.
The silence was strange—thick, almost humming—and though I should have felt frightened, what I felt instead was awe. A strange, trembling wonder. It was like stepping through the pages of a photograph, surrounded by a time I’d only heard about in stories.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.
The air shimmered, just for a second, like heat above tarmac. The coal smoke thinned, the buildings snapped back into their modern shapes, and the sound of engines and footsteps returned as if someone had pressed ‘play’ on the world again.
I was back.
Except I wasn’t where I thought I’d be—not entirely. When I checked my watch, it read 7:45. I’d left my house just after 7. Somehow, half an hour had slipped by. Gone. I never reached the stop in time for the bus that day, and I couldn't explain why.
I didn’t speak about it for a long time. Who would believe me?
Maybe it was a hallucination, or a vivid waking dream brought on by routine and fatigue. Or maybe, just maybe, General Wood remembered something that morning—and for a few strange minutes, I was allowed to walk through it.
Even now, on cold February mornings, I still pause at the top of the lane and take a deep breath. And every now and then, just for a moment, I swear I catch the faintest scent of coal smoke.
Just in case.
Have you ever experienced anything like this in your own life? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments below!
