Prologue

Oliver Heathcote was a contradiction. At twenty-four, he was already revered in the physics world, yet he wore his genius with unassuming ease. Few knew that behind his tousled auburn hair and quiet, contemplative eyes lay a young man with a mind that had cracked open the secrets of the universe. He preferred faded jumpers over lab coats and rather clunky shoes over polished ones. Yet, there was one place where his unpolished exterior gave way to utter precision—the basement laboratory at St. Aldwyn's College, a small and secluded department at the University of Oxford, where Oliver’s Ph.D. in theoretical physics was officially labeled “experimental.”

It was there, in that damp, forgotten corner of academia, that he stumbled upon the impossible. Oliver had always been fascinated by the concept of time. To him, time wasn’t a linear river flowing forward but a tangled web that pulsed and twisted with the energy of human lives. The idea of time travel wasn’t new, but something in Oliver's mind was driven to solve it—to turn it from fiction into reality, much like Newton once did with gravity or Einstein with relativity. Nights blurred into days as he poured over equations, reimagined the laws of physics, and pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, his only companions being the flickering fluorescent light and the hum of hastily-assembled equipment around him.

But time travel, as he discovered, was not merely a matter of math. It was an endeavor demanding focus, precision, and, above all, patience. Theoretically, he had figured it out; practically, it was a different story. Each attempt at temporal displacement brought him tantalizingly close to his target—a moment in 1932, Berlin, before a young Adolf Hitler had solidified his plans for global catastrophe. He imagined the dictator’s face, familiar from grainy black-and-white photos, and wondered what it would take to end him. The past had a magnetic pull, its promise was seductive, offering Oliver a chance to alter the darkest chapter of history. He was convinced that if he could travel back to this one critical juncture, humanity's entire trajectory could change.

But time was resilient. Each test run sent him to the brink, but never quite far enough. The furthest back he’d managed to go was the day his own parents met in the 1990s, a frustratingly contemporary past that left him stranded and despondent for hours before he could find his way back.

By now, Oliver’s obsession had begun to eat away at him. His colleagues noticed that he hardly spoke at department seminars, his professors grew concerned that he had all but abandoned his coursework, and his friends started whispering about his “mad scientist” turn. Yet, no one could have suspected the real madness brewing beneath the unassuming exterior, no one knew that his mind wasn’t focused on modern theories, but on an era long gone, a battle fought against a foe who had died decades before Oliver had taken his first breath.

After a series of failed attempts, Oliver realized there was something within the physics he hadn’t yet accounted for. The laws of time weren’t just restrictive—they were defensive, protecting history like a body’s immune system. With each new test, he felt himself pushing up against something almost sentient, a force he could neither explain nor overcome. And with each failure, his resolve grew. He could hear his own thoughts in a strange new clarity: If I fail a hundred times, I’ll try a hundred more.

The final straw came one night when he watched an old documentary about the Holocaust. The footage left him shaken, the images of skeletal survivors, the black smoke rising from the crematoria, the empty eyes of liberated children. That night, Oliver didn’t sleep. When dawn broke, he was back in the basement, the machine ready once again, recalibrated, recharged, and adjusted with every last mathematical trick he could muster. He took a deep breath and, with a determined flick of a switch, Oliver launched himself into the unknown. 

Would he ever arrive at his destination? Would he ever stand face-to-face with a young Hitler, a gun in hand, knowing he could pull the trigger and rewrite history in a single act? Or would he be thwarted, yet again, by the relentless force of time itself? This was not a journey for the faint of heart, nor the weak of will. But Oliver Heathcote was neither. He was on a mission that stretched far beyond his own life, one that tethered him to a past that called to him across the divide of centuries.

As the machine roared to life around him, Oliver held onto a single, defiant thought: I will try again. Time and time again, until history is no longer set in stone.

Chapter 1: A Leap Through Time

The basement laboratory at St. Aldwyn's had never felt colder. Shadows danced across the exposed pipes, and the hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above, filling the air with a strained tension. Oliver was hunched over his invention—a conglomeration of wires, glass tubes, and steel that seemed more like a chaotic art installation than a time machine. He rubbed his hands together and took a breath, his eyes scanning the control panel, checking and double-checking the dials and switches. This time, it had to work.

“Trying to launch yourself into oblivion again, Ollie?”

Oliver turned to see Sarah Grayson leaning against the door frame, her dark eyebrows arched with amused skepticism. Sarah was one of the few people who knew about his “extracurricular project.” She’d been his lab partner in the early days of his Ph.D. program, though her specialty lay in quantum computing, not temporal physics. She was brilliant, quick-witted, and, Oliver sometimes felt, too perceptive for her own good.

“Not oblivion. Berlin, 1932,” Oliver replied, without looking up from the panel. “And I’d rather not spend half an hour explaining again why I have to do this.”

Sarah sighed, brushing back her thick black hair and crossing her arms. “So we’re still on the Hitler mission, are we? What makes you think this try will be any different from the last dozen?”

“It has to be,” Oliver muttered, then added, louder, “I’ve recalibrated everything. Realigned the temporal resonance fields, adjusted the gravitational modulators to account for historical elasticity—”

“I know, I know. You're Einstein with a DeLorean,” Sarah teased, trying to keep it light. But Oliver’s shoulders sagged as he set down his tools, exhaustion etched into his face.

“Don’t you get it, Sarah?” he said, frustration spilling into his voice. “I have to make it back. I can’t just keep—watching these horrific moments in history, knowing that I have the power to stop them. It eats at me every single day.”

A tall, wiry figure appeared behind Sarah in the doorway. Professor Benjamin Ward, Oliver’s Ph.D. advisor, looked like he had materialized out of nowhere, his silver hair and intense blue eyes reflecting the basement’s sterile lighting. He glanced between Oliver and Sarah, his expression a mixture of curiosity and caution.

“Care to enlighten an old man on what you’re working on, Mr. Heathcote?” Professor Ward asked, though the glint in his eye suggested he already had some inkling.

Oliver straightened, feeling both a surge of excitement and anxiety. He’d never wanted his advisor to know about the time machine, fearing that Ward would dismiss the project as foolish or reckless. But with the professor standing there, a man who had devoted his life to the pursuit of physics, Oliver couldn’t hold back.

“It’s… a temporal displacement device,” he said, gesturing to the machinery. “Essentially, I’ve figured out a way to push through the chronological boundary, enabling travel back in time. Not by years or decades, but specific moments.”  He paused, watching his professor’s reaction. Ward’s eyes narrowed as he studied the machine. “And you believe you can use this—what did you call it? Temporal displacement—to alter history?” “Yes, Professor. If I can get to 1932, I can find Hitler before he gains power. End his life, and possibly save millions of others.” Oliver’s words tumbled out with unrestrained urgency.

Professor Ward ran a hand over his chin, contemplative. “You’ve been busy, I see. But Oliver… history isn’t a puzzle you can rearrange at will. You have no idea what kind of repercussions this could have, even if you manage to succeed.”

“It’s worth the risk,” Oliver said, his voice steady. “I’ve calculated the odds, accounted for paradoxes. I know there’s uncertainty, but this is the only chance we have to make a meaningful difference.” 

Sarah, who had been silent for a moment, suddenly broke in. “But, Ollie, what if you can’t come back? Or worse, what if you change things so much that you never exist in the first place?”

Oliver’s mouth twitched into a thin, almost defiant smile. “I’m willing to take that chance. I didn’t get into physics to watch history unfold like some passive observer. If there’s a way to rewrite one of the darkest chapters, then I have to try.”

Professor Ward took a step forward, his gaze piercing. “Oliver, you’re young, idealistic. But I need you to think about this carefully. The past resists change for a reason. What if you succeed, only to find you’ve created something worse?”

The thought stopped Oliver for a brief moment. He looked from his machine to his professor, and then to Sarah, who was watching him with unguarded concern.

“Maybe,” he said slowly, “but I’d rather face the unknown than live in a world where I did nothing. You taught me that, Professor—our role as scientists isn’t just to understand the universe, but to use that knowledge for good.” 

Professor Ward sighed, a mix of pride and trepidation crossing his face. He took a long look at the machine, then turned back to Oliver. “Very well, then. But if you’re going to embark on this mission of yours, you’ll need someone who knows what they’re doing on the other side. The least I can do is help you run through the final calculations.”

“Same here,” Sarah chimed in, her arms still crossed. “Not that I agree with this insanity, but if you’re going back in time to take on Hitler, you’re not doing it alone.”

A quiet smile spread across Oliver’s face. This was it—the moment he’d waited for, with allies by his side who finally understood the weight of his mission.

“All right then,” he said, setting his hands on the control panel. “Let’s rewrite history.”

Chapter 2: A Year Too Early

Oliver’s fingers trembled as he pressed the final button on the control panel, and the machine around him roared to life. He braced himself, knowing what was coming—the surge of energy, the disorientation, the dizzying blur of time peeling away like the pages of an old book, each year cascading backward until everything converged into a single moment. With a blinding flash, the air seemed to thicken, vibrating with an intensity that left his bones humming. His vision went dark, then light, then dark again.

When his eyes adjusted, Oliver found himself standing in the middle of a narrow, cobblestone street, shrouded in an early morning fog. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, but immediately felt a strange heaviness. His limbs were leaden, his head clouded, and his heart pounded in a way he didn’t recognize—a deep, laborious thud that made him grip his chest. Something was different this time, something he hadn’t felt during his previous test runs. Each pulse felt… strained, as if he were burning through his own life force just by being here.

“1932…” he muttered, surveying the street around him. But the gas-lit lamps, the old-fashioned carriages clattering in the distance, and the faint chatter of people dressed in muted, early 20th-century attire made him uneasy. As he stumbled forward, a sudden realization hit him with the weight of a hammer.

I’m a year too early.

He closed his eyes, grappling with the implications. This wasn’t part of the plan. He was supposed to land in 1932, just as Hitler was gaining political traction. Now, he’d have to wait an entire year, hiding his true identity, blending into a world that wasn’t his own, all while his body seemed to be unraveling. And somewhere in the depths of his mind, a haunting thought clawed its way forward: would he even last another year if time travel took this toll every trip?

As Oliver moved to find his bearings, a woman’s voice called out from behind him, soft but startlingly clear.

“Are you all right, sir?”

He turned to see a young woman, likely in her mid-twenties, with auburn curls tucked beneath a cloche hat, and warm, curious eyes. She held a small bouquet of flowers, her gaze softened with genuine concern. Her dress was simple but elegant, befitting the time period, and she carried herself with a quiet confidence that set her apart from the hurried passersby.

“I… I think so,” he replied, though his voice sounded as foreign as the world around him. He steadied himself, forcing a smile. “Just a bit disoriented. Rough night.”

She chuckled, the sound like a balm to his nerves. “If that’s the case, you’re not alone. Half the city had a rough night, judging by the taverns.” She looked at him closely. “I’m Eliza.”

“Oliver,” he said, holding out his hand, which she shook firmly.

Her eyes lingered on his clothing—a button-down shirt, trousers, and a thin coat that appeared just modern enough to look out of place, though she didn’t comment on it. Instead, her expression softened.

“Are you new to Berlin? You seem a bit… lost, if I may say so.”

“I am, in a way,” Oliver admitted, carefully choosing his words. “I’ve come here to… study, though my focus is on… the future, you might say.” He chuckled to himself, though his laugh came out hollow, laden with the irony of his words.

Eliza tilted her head, clearly intrigued. “The future, is it? That’s quite an unusual field of study.”

They shared a smile, one that felt oddly grounding to Oliver. They continued walking, Eliza guiding him through the morning fog, pointing out landmarks, shops, and little cafes along the way. Her presence was disarming, and for a moment, Oliver’s mission receded into the background.

Over the next few months, he began to settle into a rhythm of sorts. He found lodging at a small inn and managed to get a teaching assistant position at a local academic institute, where his advanced knowledge of physics raised a few eyebrows but ultimately earned him respect. And through it all, he spent more and more time with Eliza. They shared long walks through Berlin, discussing literature, philosophy, and the political climate of a world on the brink of change. He learned that she was a writer, one with sharp insight into the undercurrents of society and a keen sense of justice. Her presence grounded him, kept him from being swept up in the weight of his mission.

Yet, Oliver knew that he was here for a reason. The days slipped into weeks, then months, each one taking a little more out of him. Each night, he found himself exhausted in ways he’d never been before, his skin pale and his pulse weakening. His body felt worn, strained by forces that seemed to drain the very vitality from him. The time travel, it seemed, was far more taxing than he had anticipated.

One chilly evening in November, as they strolled along the Spree River, Eliza glanced at him, her brows knit with concern.

“Oliver,” she said gently, “you’re not well. I’ve noticed… you seem weaker, paler, each time we meet. Are you sure everything is all right?”

Oliver took a deep breath, struggling with how much to reveal. He felt a deep trust with Eliza that he hadn’t shared with anyone in years, a bond that made him want to unburden his mind, to tell her everything. But the danger, the risks, the weight of his mission held him back.

“I’m just… tired, Eliza,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. “My work—it’s more draining than I expected. Sometimes, I wonder if I can keep it up.”

Eliza reached for his hand, her touch soft but reassuring. “You know, you don’t have to do this alone. Whatever it is, I’m here. You’ve become… important to me, Oliver.”

The words caught him off guard. He met her gaze, the world around them fading as he saw the warmth in her eyes, a warmth that melted some of the icy resolve he had built around his heart. He felt a pang of something he hadn’t anticipated—an attachment, a desire to stay here with her, to live a life unburdened by his mission.

“Eliza…” he began, then paused, grappling with the weight of his next words. “There are things about me—things I can’t explain, things that… would make it hard for me to stay here.”

Eliza’s eyes softened. “Sometimes, people carry burdens we can’t understand. But whatever it is, Oliver, you don’t have to go through it alone. You’ve changed my life. And maybe… maybe I could help you change yours.”

For a moment, Oliver let himself imagine it—a life here, with Eliza, where his mission was a distant memory, and his future was something he could write alongside her. But as he glanced at her, the reality sank in. His purpose was far greater, and his connection to her, however powerful, could never overshadow the dark pull of history.

Chapter 3: A Twist of Fate 

The evening air hung heavy over Berlin, casting the city’s streets in a dull, hazy glow. Oliver paced his small room, his mind torn between two worlds. On one hand, he could feel the pull of his former life, the clean lines of his basement lab, the familiar hum of machines, the steady presence of Sarah and Dr. Ward. Yet here, in the past, he had Eliza—a woman who had slowly chipped away at his resolve, igniting a part of him he hadn’t realized was there.

It felt surreal to him that he was caught between love and history, torn between the life he’d known and the life he’d stumbled upon in a time not his own.

A knock at his door broke the silence. He opened it to find Eliza standing there, dressed in a sleek, midnight-blue dress that shimmered faintly in the lamplight. Her auburn curls were pinned up, her face soft but lit with an uncharacteristic intensity.

“Oliver, I… I have news,” she said, her voice tinged with excitement. “You remember I told you about the political rally my editor invited me to cover? It’s going to be even bigger than I thought. There will be leaders, officials… even Herr Hitler himself.”

Oliver felt his heart seize. “Hitler?”

Eliza nodded, oblivious to the tremor that ran through him. “Yes. He’s quickly rising in influence, gaining supporters from every corner. My editor believes his vision for Germany is gaining traction, especially now that the Chancellor has passed.”

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. She leaned forward, her enthusiasm bubbling over. “Oliver, I can get us in. I told my editor I’d be bringing a guest. I can introduce you to him—Herr Hitler himself.”

A moment passed, the weight of her words settling in his mind. Eliza, the woman who had somehow unraveled his guarded heart, was now presenting him with the very opportunity he had sacrificed so much to reach. All those sleepless nights, all those hours spent calculating and recalculating the mechanics of time travel—all for this moment. And it was as if the universe was finally aligning to give him the chance he needed.

He met her gaze, forcing himself to remain calm. “Eliza, this is… incredible,” he managed. “I didn’t think I’d get so close to someone like him.”

Eliza smiled, clearly delighted. “Then it’s settled. We’ll attend together. You can meet Herr Hitler and see for yourself what his vision is all about.”

As they stood in the dim light of his small apartment, another voice broke the quiet—a deep, wary voice.

“And what interest does an Englishman like you have in Germany’s future?”

They both turned to see a young man standing in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. His resemblance to Eliza was unmistakable—the same sharp features, the same piercing eyes. Yet where Eliza’s gaze was warm and open, his was sharp and filled with suspicion.

“Oliver, this is my brother, Max,” Eliza said, her tone careful. “He just arrived in Berlin last week. Max, this is my friend, Oliver.”

Max’s jaw tightened as he gave Oliver a stiff nod. “Pleasure,” he muttered, though the skepticism in his eyes suggested otherwise. He stepped into the room, sizing Oliver up with a look that felt as sharp as a blade.

“Max works with the newspapers, too,” Eliza continued, her voice light, trying to ease the tension. “But he’s a bit… skeptical about politics in general.”

“Skeptical is an understatement,” Max replied, his gaze still fixed on Oliver. “I’ve seen enough empty promises and broken systems to know when someone is spinning a fairy tale. And this Hitler fellow? He’s no different. I can’t understand what you’d hope to accomplish by meeting him.”

Eliza frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. “Max, please. Oliver’s here as a guest, and he’s curious, that’s all.”

But Max remained unconvinced. He took a step closer to Oliver, his voice low but intense. “You’re not German, and yet here you are, eagerly lining up to meet a man who could be dangerous. Forgive me if that seems a bit… odd.”

Oliver held Max’s gaze, understanding the caution, perhaps even appreciating it. “I understand your concern, Max,” he said, keeping his tone measured. “But I’m here to learn, just as your sister is. I’ve studied politics, society, history… and I want to understand what’s happening here.”

Max’s brow furrowed, his eyes searching. “You study history?” he asked, an edge of doubt creeping into his voice. 

“Among other things, yes,” Oliver replied smoothly. He could sense that Max wasn’t the kind of man who trusted easily, especially when it came to strangers with interests that seemed too convenient. “I’m… passionate about ensuring history doesn’t repeat its worst moments.”

Max’s gaze softened, just a fraction. He glanced at Eliza, as if searching her face for some sign of reassurance, then returned his attention to Oliver. “If you’re so passionate about that,” he murmured, “then tread carefully. This man you’re so eager to meet… he may not be what he seems.”

Oliver’s heart pounded, and he felt a spark of unexpected gratitude. For a moment, he almost wanted to confide in Max, to tell him everything. But he knew he couldn’t; it was too dangerous, both for him and for them.

Instead, he nodded. “I understand.”

Max hesitated a moment longer before stepping back. He shot Eliza a look that spoke volumes—a mixture of worry, protectiveness, and resignation. “Fine. But I’ll be watching both of you,” he said, a thin edge of humor in his voice.

Eliza smiled, rolling her eyes. “Oh, Max, you always assume the worst.”

“Only because I’ve seen it often enough,” Max replied, though his voice softened as he looked at her. “Just… be careful, both of you.”

They spent the rest of the evening planning, with Eliza explaining the details of the event and how they’d navigate the crowd. Max remained a silent, watchful presence, occasionally chiming in with a warning or a sarcastic remark. And as they spoke, Oliver couldn’t shake the sense of unease.

Later, after Eliza and Max left, Oliver sat alone in his room, thinking over the whirlwind of events. He was about to come face-to-face with Adolf Hitler, yet his mind was filled with the look in Eliza’s eyes, the warmth of her smile, the way she’d believed in him, even with the gaps in his story.

And then there was Max, with his quiet suspicion. He wondered if Max sensed the truth—if he saw Oliver for what he truly was: a man from another time, with knowledge that could upend everything.

Oliver sat by the window in the dim light, the hum of the city below muffled and distant. His mind churned with endless loops of planning, each thought feeding into the other like a knot he couldn’t untangle. He knew he was close to his target, the man whose name reverberated with the dark echoes of future atrocities. The chance to end it all lay within reach—close enough to taste, yet tied up in a web of human connection he hadn’t anticipated.

His gaze drifted to the closed door, and he thought of Eliza. Her laughter, her trust, the gentle way she brushed a hand through her auburn hair as they spoke—these were small things that, he realized, had become dear to him. And then there was Max. Only a few hours had passed since he’d met Eliza’s brother, but Max had already sown doubt in him, the kind of doubt that felt like a splinter beneath the skin. Max saw him for what he was—a stranger with unclear intentions, hiding more than he revealed. And Max was right. If only he knew how right.

The mission had seemed so clear before. Eliminate Hitler, avert the rise of the Nazi party, prevent the atrocities of the Holocaust. But the reality he now found himself in complicated the clarity that had driven him here. Eliza had brought
him this close to his target, trusting him without question. She’d handed him the chance he’d waited for, yet doing so felt like a betrayal of her. She was unknowingly leading him to kill a man who would become a hero to her contemporaries, a man who was, at this point, still a mere radical with vision rather than the monster he’d become.

Oliver pressed a hand to his forehead, as if he could will the pain in his mind to dissipate. He had been so focused on the mission that he hadn’t considered how the world around him would be affected by his actions—how Eliza and Max, too, would be drawn into the chaos that would follow if his plan succeeded.

But there was no going back. He hadn’t traveled through time, fracturing his very life, to fall short now. His work, his sacrifice—it had all led to this moment. And yet, as he recalled Eliza’s open, trusting gaze, a cold wave of guilt swept over him. He felt as if he were a thief, stealing her faith, her innocence in a way, while all along planning something that, by her world’s standards, was abhorrent.

Oliver’s mind raced, locking in the final details of his plan. When he would meet Hitler at the rally, he’d have to move quickly, relying on the small, spring-loaded blade hidden in the lining of his coat. He’d spent months training his reflexes, studying the anatomy, the precise angle he’d need to deliver a fatal blow. This wasn’t the Oliver of his university lab—this was a man forged by necessity, willing to do the unthinkable to change the future.

But the truth lay heavier than he had expected. If he succeeded, Eliza would likely be implicated as an accomplice for introducing him. Max, too, would come under scrutiny for his association. Both would be questioned, perhaps detained—or worse.

Oliver let out a quiet groan, staring at his trembling hands. Was this truly the best course? Was he willing to see Eliza harmed, her life upended, for the sake of a future she could never understand? He thought back to Max’s parting words, the suspicion in his eyes: “Just… be careful, both of you.”

In the end, his mission demanded sacrifice. He would have to protect Eliza and Max in whatever way he could, even if it meant altering his original plan. Perhaps there was a way to do this without implicating them—an escape route, or a staged scene that would point to political dissent rather than personal involvement.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Oliver tensed, then forced himself to calm. It was Eliza, bringing a bouquet of flowers she’d picked from a nearby market. She placed them on his small table, her face bright with excitement, oblivious to the conflict raging within him.

“Oliver, are you ready?” she asked, her eyes sparkling. “We’ll leave soon. It’s all arranged. You’ll finally get to meet him.”

For a brief moment, he considered telling her everything—the real reason he’d come, the darkness he knew would follow if he didn’t act. But her faith, her openness, disarmed him. She had no knowledge of his burdens, no notion of the history that demanded this course. He nodded, forcing a smile that felt hollow.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice steadier than he felt. “Thank you, Eliza. I… I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She touched his arm gently, a gesture that grounded him, though it also reminded him of what he was about to throw away. “There’s a future here, Oliver. A future we can all build together,” she said with quiet conviction.

His heart sank. She had no idea how wrong she was.

As they prepared to leave, Max joined them, casting Oliver a sidelong look. “Remember what I said, Oliver,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Keep your intentions clear.” There was an unspoken warning in his voice, a reminder that he was watching. But Oliver knew that, by nightfall, his actions would set a course that could tear everything apart—no matter how much he wanted otherwise.

Steeling himself, he took a deep breath. His resolve firmed. He was ready—or as ready as he’d ever be—to face the monstrous man he’d come so far to destroy.

Chapter 4: Ripples in Time

The hum of the basement lab was softer than usual, a low, eerie hum that seemed to mirror the tension that filled the room. Sarah paced along the cold, tiled floor, her fingers brushing over the machines, the knobs, the complex, blinking interfaces Oliver had designed himself. To her, the lab felt strangely lifeless without him there, his absence filling the space like a heavy fog.

Across the room, Professor Ward sat at a cluttered workbench, his spectacles perched low on his nose as he read through a thick volume on temporal physics. His brow was furrowed, his fingers tapping a restless beat against the tabletop.

“Has it really only been ten minutes since he left?” Sarah asked, breaking the silence.

The professor didn’t look up. “Yes. Though it feels… considerably longer.” The reality of Oliver’s absence was beginning to dawn on both of them. His journey into the past, an experiment in temporal mechanics, was now affecting more than just theoretical discussions and academic papers. They were dealing with a real consequence of his work, and for all their intelligence and foresight, they had only a limited understanding of what that truly meant.

Sarah’s gaze drifted to the device—a strange, spherical console at the center of the lab. It hummed faintly, thrumming with the residual energy of Oliver’s last jump. Her stomach twisted as she remembered the determination in his eyes before he left, the fierce resolve that drove him to risk everything. But now, the thought of him somewhere in 1930s Germany, possibly altering the very fabric of history, filled her with a dread she couldn’t shake.

“Professor,” Sarah began, her voice tense, “we both know what’s at stake. But have we considered what might happen if Oliver succeeds?”

Professor Ward finally looked up, his eyes serious behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “I’ve been thinking about little else,” he admitted. “If he succeeds in… changing history, we’ll experience the consequences here, Sarah. All of us. It’s impossible to know exactly how, but it’s certain that the ripple effects would extend far beyond his original intent.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “But what if he… fails?” 

“That may be just as dangerous,” Professor Ward replied, his voice grave. “His failure would leave him trapped in the past, with the potential for unintended consequences with each day he remains there. Imagine—a man from our time with knowledge of future events, present in a pivotal historical period. Even without intending to, he could alter things just by being there.”

Sarah shivered, thinking of Oliver—a brilliant, principled man—trying to blend into a time that was foreign and hostile, a time when ideals were as volatile as the political climate. His very presence was a risk. “But, Professor,” she said, “if we do nothing, aren’t we effectively leaving his fate and… history itself in the hands of chance?”

Professor Ward’s eyes held a deep sorrow. “You’re not wrong, Sarah. But what choice do we have? This technology—it’s experimental, unpredictable. He knew the risks. We all did. We can only hope that Oliver’s knowledge, his training, his instincts will guide him.”

Sarah shook her head, her voice urgent. “What if we could reach him somehow? Send him a signal, a message. Warn him about the dangers he might not foresee. The man has a scientific mind, but he’s human, and he’s deeply empathetic. If he’s developing connections there… it could compromise his mission.”

The professor was silent for a moment, his eyes distant as he considered her suggestion. “In theory, it’s possible. The machine might allow us to send a message, but it would have to be cryptic. Too much information could distort things further. We’d have to encode it, make it brief. But even then…” He trailed off, clearly struggling with the implications.

“Even then,” Sarah finished, “we risk changing his course of action. We could be meddling with forces we don’t understand.” She sighed, brushing a hand through her hair. “But how can we just sit here, Professor? Oliver’s out there… somewhere in time. And we’re powerless to help him.”

Professor Ward met her gaze, and for the first time, she saw a hint of fear in his eyes. He had always been calm, rational, even stoic in the face of uncertainty, but the enormity of their situation weighed on him just as much as it did on her. “This is the paradox of our work, Sarah. We built this machine to answer questions, to push the boundaries of human knowledge. But now that we’re faced with the consequences, we see that some answers are more dangerous than we ever imagined.”

Sarah looked back at the time machine, feeling a surge of anger and helplessness. “So we just… wait?”

Ward’s gaze softened, but he held firm. “Waiting is the safest course, as unbearable as it feels. Oliver left with a purpose—a dangerous one, yes, but he knew it was necessary. We must have faith in his judgment.”

But even as he said the words, doubt flickered in his eyes, mirroring Sarah’s own fears. What if Oliver was making choices based on emotions, influenced by the people and relationships he’d formed in the past? The longer he remained there, the more likely it was that he would begin to lose his grip on his original mission, caught between his loyalty to his new connections and his knowledge of the future.

A silence settled over them, the hum of the machines around them the only sound. They both knew what might be required—a contingency plan in the event that things went drastically wrong.

“I’ll draft a message,” Professor Ward said quietly, breaking the silence. “In case we decide it’s necessary. But we must be careful. One misstep, and the repercussions could be catastrophic.”

Sarah nodded, swallowing her rising anxiety. “We owe him that much. To be prepared, if nothing else.”

As they stood together in the lab, the weight of their decisions hung over them like a storm cloud. Oliver was out there, across the chasm of time, and each second that passed increased the risk of an altered reality. The smallest ripple
could become a tidal wave, forever changing not only their fates but the course of history itself.

And for the first time, they both understood the true gravity of their creation—a machine meant to conquer time but capable of unraveling the very fabric of existence.

Final Chapter: The Cost of Time

As the motorcar rumbled down the Berlin street, Oliver’s fingers twitched around the cold metal of the handgun tucked inside his jacket. He felt every vibration, every uneven turn in the road, each one bringing him closer to an intersection with history that would forever alter the course of time. Max, seated beside him, watched Oliver’s tension mount, his dark eyes scanning him with a blend of worry and respect. It was in these final moments that the enormity of his mission struck Oliver like a bolt of electricity—an electric charge that left him shivering, despite his carefully maintained composure.

"Do you have a plan?" Max’s question was hushed, but pointed.

Oliver took a slow breath, weighing his words. "If he arrives at that rally tonight, history will unfold in ways you can’t imagine." He hesitated, then plunged forward, his voice steady and low. "I’m from the future, Max. I’ve come back here because I know what this man will become—he’ll rise as a tyrant, plunging the world into a nightmare of death and destruction."

Max didn’t flinch; he looked almost resigned. "I had my suspicions that you weren’t who you said you were, Oliver. I knew you were different from the start. The way you talk, the knowledge you carry—it's out of place. So... what do we
do now?"

"We make sure Hitler never leaves the car," Oliver replied, holding his breath as he allowed the plan to solidify in his mind. "Any other attempt will fail. You don’t know the details, but I do."

Max glanced at the pistol in Oliver’s jacket and shook his head thoughtfully. "But what if we could stop him from reaching the rally? Buy ourselves enough time to strike before he can react."

Oliver met Max’s gaze, sensing the desperation and resolve that mirrored his own. "He’ll be heavily guarded. Your distraction has to be convincing enough to buy me seconds—no more, no less. Then I’ll do the rest."

Max nodded. "There’s an alleyway a few blocks up. I can stage a breakdown, then cause enough noise to attract the guards’ attention. They’ll have no choice but to split, leaving you your opening."

The car slowed as they neared the alley, and Max turned, gripping Oliver’s arm with an intensity that was almost fierce. "If anything goes wrong, you leave. Get out, disappear, and don’t come back. You’re risking more than I think you even realize."

The words stung. Oliver knew Max was right; there was more on the line than his life alone. But, with a determined look, Oliver stepped out of the car, slipping into the alley’s shadows and positioning himself where he could see the road clearly. As he watched, he muttered a silent prayer—not for himself, but for everyone who would be affected if he failed.

Minutes later, Hitler’s motorcade approached. Max was ready, slamming their car into an obstruction that blocked the narrow street. The guards’ confusion created a momentary lapse, their attention diverting to the commotion. The path to Hitler’s car lay open, a single instant that Oliver seized.

Gun in hand, he strode forward, his movements swift and resolute. He reached the car, glimpsing Hitler’s dark, piercing eyes as he raised his weapon. He fired a single shot—no hesitation, no turning back. Hitler slumped in the seat, and the world held its breath as history was irrevocably altered in a single, silent instant.

Oliver backed away, disappearing into the chaos as guards shouted and scrambled, and he slipped unnoticed into the night, retracing his steps through winding alleys back to the place he had left his time machine. The events replayed in his mind as he braced himself against the wall, catching his breath, his heart pounding with the realization that he had done it. The impossible was now history.

In the quiet of the Oxford lab, a blinding flash lit the darkened basement as Oliver stumbled back into the modern era. He collapsed against the cold tile, the hum of the time machine fading to silence. Breathing heavily, he blinked in disbelief, waiting for his surroundings to come into sharp relief. He’d done it. The future had to be different.

But as his eyes adjusted to the dim room, a disturbing sense of unfamiliarity settled over him. The lab was empty—no books cluttered the tables, no equipment left scattered, no signs of Sarah or Professor Ward. The space, so familiar in his mind, seemed as though it had been abandoned, lifeless and cold.

Stumbling to his feet, he looked around, half-expecting Sarah to appear with her concerned gaze, or for Professor Ward’s calm, rational voice to call out from behind one of the lab benches. But there was only silence.

He hurried down the corridor, through halls that were eerily vacant, each turn only adding to his dread. When he finally reached the department directory on the wall, his heart sank further: there was no mention of Professor Ward, no office listed under his name. Sarah’s position was equally absent, as if they’d never existed at all.

A chill swept over him. Changing history had cost him more than he’d anticipated.

Oliver stumbled out of the building, making his way through the campus grounds. He recognized everything—the old stone buildings, the echo of voices in the evening air. Yet, each familiar sight felt alien, as though he were witnessing his own life through a distorted lens.

He reached a bench near the quad, his mind racing with the implications of what he’d done. Killing Hitler had saved millions, rewriting history and sparing the world the horrors of World War II, the Holocaust, the atomic bomb. But the absence of those events had changed the future in unimaginable ways, rippling out to touch every life that came after.

Without Hitler’s rise to power, many of the motivations, movements, and innovations that had arisen from necessity—the breakthroughs of science, the development of technologies—had been altered. Somewhere along the way, the sequence of events that led to Sarah’s life, Professor Ward’s work, even the creation of the time machine itself, had vanished, leaving Oliver a stranger in his own world.

The weight of his choice settled on him like an unbearable burden. He had achieved his mission, had sacrificed everything for it, yet the cost had extended far beyond his own life. In saving the world from one evil, he had unraveled the threads of his own existence.

A bitter, haunting thought crept into his mind: Would they even remember him now? Or had he erased himself from their memories, leaving his mark only on the remnants of an alternate past?

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Oliver sat alone, watching the world he’d reshaped unfold around him, knowing he could never fully reclaim the life he’d left behind