The staircase loomed ahead as I stormed towards it, my anger masking the tears welling in my eyes. As I reached the top, his voice called my name, but I refused to look back. Ignoring his plea, I broke into a run, tears streaming down my face. With each step, his voice faded, drowned out by the pounding of my heart and the echoes of my footsteps. Reaching the top, I wiped away the tears with the back of my hand, determined to keep moving forward, away from the pain. This hurt more than it should. My heart felt like it was going to rip through my chest, and I shouldn't feel this way for someone I had known merely days.

In the living room doorway, Charlotte appeared, a small, knowing smile gracing her lips as our eyes met. Her silent observation added another layer of complexity to the tumultuous scene. Without a word, I rushed past her to the front door. I heard Blake's voice echo one last time before I left the house, running down the front steps toward the forest.

The branches clawed at my face as I ran through the dense forest, their rough touch adding to the tumult of my emotions. Each step I took seemed to echo the pounding of my heart, matching the rhythm of my racing thoughts. The trees felt like they were closing in, their looming presence suffocating as I pushed deeper into the woods. My breaths came in ragged gasps as tears streamed down my face, hot and unrelenting.

I suddenly stopped, leaning against the trunk of a large oak tree, my palm pressed against its rough bark. My lungs burned as I caught my breath, and my tears blurred the greens and browns of the forest around me. I dipped my head, wiping my face with trembling hands. The forest was quiet, save for the rustling leaves and the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

As I stood amidst the serene beauty of the forest, the contrast between its stillness and my inner turmoil felt almost unbearable. How would I face Blake again? Or Charlotte, for that matter? Embarrassment burned in my chest, intertwining with the sting of his words. I hated how much this hurt.

The quietness of the cottage was welcoming as I burst through the door. The familiar scent of aged wood and faint smoke embraced me like a sanctuary, though the feeling was fleeting. The worn sofa beckoned, and I threw myself onto it with a huff of frustration. My upset shifted to annoyance and anger. Clenching my fists, I released some of the pent-up rage with a series of punches on a nearby cushion until a loud sob broke from my lips.

The tears streamed down my face, fresh ones following the tracks of those that had already fallen. The weight of everything that had transpired crashed over me, leaving me gasping for breath and only able to hiccup small gulps. Was this what it felt like for your heart to be broken?

The weight of his icy tone and the abrupt shift in our relationship bore heavily on me. Confusion, frustration, and a deep hurt settled in my chest. The moments we had shared, the connection we had formed, now felt as if it were crumbling before my eyes.

I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, but then decided to get up and go to the small bathroom. My face felt dirty with tears and stung from all of the crying. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my reflection stared back, hollow and red-eyed. The flickering candle on the sink cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating the worn tiles and peeling wallpaper, adding to the melancholy atmosphere.

I ran the cold tap and splashed my face with water, letting the coolness soothe the sting of my skin. The sensation provided a brief moment of relief, though the ache in my chest lingered. I rubbed under my eyes gently, trying to erase the evidence of my outburst.

My fingers ran through my hair as I stared at my reflection, my bottom lip trembling. The face looking back at me seemed different, fractured by emotions I couldn't contain. I pressed my palms against the edge of the sink, staring at the flickering candlelight, willing it to steady—as if its flame could anchor me.

But nothing could anchor me, not in this moment. Blake's words echoed in my mind, sharp and cold. My heart felt fractured.

Taking a deep breath, I resolved to divert my thoughts from Blake. I walked to the box and retrieved the next journal entry, the familiar leather-bound book feeling cool and reassuring in my hands, like a lifeline to a world I couldn't entirely grasp.

As I settled into the armchair, I glanced at the journal as if it held the answers to all my questions. Yet, a nagging thought persisted Charlotte must have said something to Blake while Gwen and I were upstairs. His behaviour seemed so different from the person he was with me yesterday. Over the past few days, he had shown the same determination to unravel the mystery of Cecilia's disappearance and find a way to get me home as I had.

Either Blake couldn't see the parallel between the two situations or he didn't want to, and both annoyed me beyond belief. Unless he did, and that's why he got angry at me for pointing it out. Closing my mind off to thoughts of Blake, I focused on reading the next entry, hoping it would shed some light on how to move forward from him and this place where I did not belong.

31st December 1921

As these words tumble from my mind to the paper, I am utterly bewildered by what has transpired this night. My heart races, and my hand trembles; I cannot make sense of it all. Cecilia is back! She has returned to me, and it has left me with a whirlwind of emotions, a tumultuous mix of anger, hurt, and overwhelming joy. How has she returned? And with all this, I cannot stop the happiness that is also raging inside of me. I asked why she left without saying goodbye, and she told me that she had no choice; she didn't know whether the things she was trying would work. She explained to me that when she left me and returned to her own time, mere hours had passed, and she found herself having to escape another horror upon her return—her husband. Luckily for her, she managed to escape the grounds of the house and flee to somewhere else. My mind struggled to grasp the concept that time could flow so differently for us, that our moments together were just a blink in time from where she came from. And then, the most astonishing revelation of all: she revealed to me that she was with child... my child. I could have wept right there, but the shock forbade me. How could she be pregnant with my child when we had been separated without each other for over a year? She explained that what had been over a year for me has been a mere six months for her. She knows that I am married, but she could not raise my child without my knowledge, so she risked returning to the house, avoiding her husband, and hoping that whatever magic sent her to me would bring her back. I begged and pleaded for her to tell me what she had done to return to her own time, an ethical battle making me want to know so I can destroy it, so she can never leave me again.

The words of Ernest's journal entry echoed in my mind, each one tugging at me in a different direction. My chest felt tight, my thoughts tangled. The cottage was silent, but all I could hear was the crack of Blake's voice earlier, that cold edge slicing through me like a knife. Why did I care so much? Why did his anger feel like it had cracked something open inside me? I didn't even belong here.

I traced the journal's worn leather cover, its familiar texture grounding me. This was why I was here—not Blake, not his scathing remarks, but Cecilia. Ernest. The truth. If I could just find out how Cecilia got back to her own time, I'd have my answer. I'd have my way home. And maybe, just maybe, Blake wouldn't even cross my mind once I was back where I belonged.

But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. His words earlier still gnawed at me, the cold finality of them leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. If Blake thought I didn't belong here, then fine. I'd find my answers, and I'd leave. My fingers tightened around the journal, and I opened it with renewed determination. The leather creaked faintly, the sound grounding me as my eyes scanned the page. I would figure this out. I had to.

1st January 1922

Today, the first day of the new year, has brought with it even more revelations than the night before. I am unsure how I am finding the time to write this, but I need to get my feelings to the paper to make sense of it all.

Cecilia has told me everything, and the truth is more astonishing than any fiction that I may find in the library. She confessed that when she left me, it had torn her heart apart not to say goodbye, but she knew that if she had, she might never have found the strength to leave at all. Her love for me is more than anything she has ever felt, and it was her love that drove her to leave me. She had been spending her days in the house, believing that either the items within were possessed with magical properties or that it was the house itself. Her efforts may have seemed futile, even ridiculous to herself at times, but she couldn't stop; it took over her mind.

She had explored every nook and cranny of the house, even going to the extent of fitting herself into cupboards, feeling as though she was truly losing her mind, hoping to stumble upon something that would return her to her own time. And then one day whilst my wife and I were out, she began exploring and found her way to the loft. There she discovered an old armoire hidden away in the dim recesses of the loft. She opened the door, stepped inside, and when she emerged, she found herself back in 1989. It was only when she heard her husband Neville's voice outside that she realised the enormity of her situation. Panic flooded through her, and she hid in the loft until the night, where she then made her escape.

But my Cece is back, and she is going to have my child. I am unsure how we will face this complex situation now that I am married, but I cannot let her leave again.

With the newfound knowledge in hand, I basked in the soft sunlight streaming through the cottage windows. I'd found it, I'd found the key to returning home.

A surge of emotions engulfed me—a heady mix of hope and longing. Rising to my feet, I clutched the precious journal, its contents promising a reunion with the world I had been yearning for.

Despite the exhilaration, thoughts of my recent encounter with Blake lingered in my mind. The memory of his cold, dismissive demeanour tempered my excitement. Could he feel as Ernest did all those years ago? Or was I simply projecting what I wanted to believe?

The warm sun cast a soft glow over the living room, illuminating the worn furniture and casting long shadows onto the wooden floor. I licked my lips and tasted salt from my previous dried tears. I moved to the small bathroom under the stairs to splash cold water on my face. As I stood in front of the mirror, I couldn't recognise myself. My eyes were slightly swollen from all of the crying, with faint red rings. My hair was sticking up in some places, and as I used my fingers to brush through it, I found a twig in the process.

How had things come to this? My longing to go home had always burned strong, but now it was tangled with the growing ache of something else entirely. I couldn't deny the feelings I had for Blake, and yet I knew I had to. These emotions were like threads pulling me in opposite directions, leaving me frayed at the edges.

I glanced back at the journal on the table and felt a flicker of determination. Whatever turmoil Blake and I faced, whatever this place stirred within me, I had to find that armoire. It wasn't just about Cecilia or Ernest—it was my way back. My escape.

I left the bathroom and decided to look for something to write with and on to be able to leave a note for Blake.

Frustration gnawed at me as I began to rummage through the drawers, searching for writing materials, anything that I could write a quick note on. My heart pounded with the urgency, knowing I needed to leave the note before I went to the main house, as if it worked and I was able to leave straight away, I would feel awful for not having let Blake know I had found the way and if nothing else to say a goodbye and thank you without having to say it in person. I came to realise after another minute of searching that there was nothing here I could use to write with. I would have to go to the main house. I moved to the front door and reached for the door handle when a sudden movement startled me.