Without much ado, here’s the third part. Thank you for reading I hope you’ll enjoy - thanks Evie for the BR and thanks to everyone who’s already given feedback on the story.
Chapter 3Hope is the last thing ever lost!
(Italian proverb)
The next morning I find myself standing in the middle of my apartment, as the morning sun glimpses through my windows. Everything feels warm, familiar. I turn and there you are, Clark, entering through the window in your suit. Your gentle smile lights up the room as I feel my cheeks redden by the sheer joy of seeing you.
Without a word, you cross the space between us and wrap me in your arms, pulling me close. Your embrace is solid, real, as if the world had righted itself once more. I bury my face in your chest, breathing in the scent I thought I’d never smell again. That familiar, comforting mix of sandalwood and fresh air, the faintest hint of cedar and sunshine, it’s
you. The scent that always makes me feel safe, like I am home.
“I thought… I lost you,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
Your hand gently cups my cheek, lifting my face so I can see your soft brown eyes. “It was just a bad dream, Lois,” you say, your voice soft and steady. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I melt into you, feeling the steady rhythm of your heartbeat beneath my cheek, the strength of your arms around me. You’re warm, solid, and the world feels
right again. A sense of overwhelming relief floods me and tears I hadn’t realized I was holding back spill onto my cheeks. “Promise?” I ask, needing to hear it.
You smile, brushing away my tears with your thumb. “I promise.”
Your scent, your touch, it surrounds me, cradling me in peace. For the first time in weeks, I feel whole.
The rap at my door jolts me awake, tearing me from the embrace of sleep, from your embrace. My throat emits a low, guttural protest. Irritated, I press a thick soft pillow over my head, hoping to drown out the intruder. Why can't the world just leave me be?
It had been the dream I was hoping for, for weeks. I saw you again.
But the nuisance persists, the knocking echoing through my skull. If it's some tabloid reporter, I’m going to douse them with ice-cold water.
Exhaustion weighs on my heavy eyelids as I drag myself toward the peephole, carefully avoiding the broken pieces of Kerth Awards I didn’t clean up earlier. It is strange how something that used to be my life’s blood is now absolutely meaningless.
The sight that greets me through the spy is startling, almost an affront: a stranger, clad in the stark formality of a bygone era. His gray three-piece sack suit is a relic. The red tie and bowler hat clash with the modern world. The wide mustache and retro glasses are so perfectly out of time, it’s as if he’s materialized from the very turn of the century.
Yet, amidst the absurdity of his appearance, there’s a peculiar warmth in his eyes, a flicker of determination that stirs something within me. It’s irrational, but a dormant ember of hope kindles in my chest, as I watch the man nervously checking his pocket watch.
His demeanor appears friendly, yet the memory of Luthor's betrayal lingers, casting shadows over my curiosity. Still, I can't resist and unlock the door, but leave the chain attached.
"Ms. Lane," he murmurs, his voice heavy with intent. "I must beg your pardon for this unannounced intrusion, yet it is of the gravest importance that you heed my words."
His eyes bore into mine. Caught between curiosity and caution, I hesitate. What secrets could this man carry? He halts, seemingly considering his words. “I comprehend that you have been grappling with a most grievous loss.” His words echo gently. “I am also well aware that trust, particularly yours, is not bestowed lightly, least of all in moments of sorrow. However, I must assure you, my motives stem from both necessity and compassion."
He pauses between each sentence, giving me time to process his words, his stance showing patience while he remains unassuming overall. “Time, as it stands, is in a delicate balance, one that has been disrupted by the tragedy surrounding Mr. Kent.”
The mention of your name stabs through my heart, but still the empathy and warmth in the man’s voice urge me to keep listening. “Time's balance?” I ask, my voice unsteady and rough, as I have no energy left to pretend to have understood what he was telling me.
He nods, watching, eyes filled with warmth and worry as he shows me a copy of the Daily Planet. The headline screams of chaos, “New Kryptonians Seize Control: Earth’s Last Stand.” I scan the article, each word a heavy weight upon my already burdened heart. It all began with Smallville being invaded by aliens. They are demanding reparation for the demise of their leader - Kal-El - they are claiming Earth.
It seems absurd, but I know my paper - the font, the style, everything. This is, as far as I can see, a real copy of the Daily Planet. He slides the paper to me through the gap in the doorway and as I read through the pages, I can’t find anything to disprove my first assessment.
Curiosity tugs at me, relentless. I unlock the chain, the metal links surrendering noisily in the silence of the evening. He smiles politely, extending a hand. "My name is Wells," he says, voice warm and cultured. "Herbert George Wells."
The name echoes within my thoughts.
H. G. Wells, the writer who created stories of time travel and alien invasions, who wrote about paradoxes and alternate realities. It seems too convenient, too easy. For me to wish for a way to get you back and then HE appears.
Still, I can’t bring myself to distrust him.
My legs wobble and I stumble to the sofa. “That’s impossible!” I whisper breathlessly. “Time travel doesn’t exist!” I exclaim, more to convince myself than to the man who can only be a product of my imagination.
He slowly follows me inside, closing the door gently. He keeps his distance at first, letting me digest the news. “Ms. Lane, I can most assuredly confirm that time travel is not mere fiction, but a reality.”
Here he is, an anachronism personified - from his clothing and accessories to his outdated way of talking. He’s challenging everything I thought I knew. It seems too convenient, too easy to believe that he brings the answer, that his books were based on real experiences. But I can‘t let hope cloud my judgment.
Despite all my skepticism, I can't help but ask. “So what brings you here? If you are who you claim to be, you can use your devices to prevent this yourself!” My voice is barely a whisper as I point to the newspaper.
Wells steps forward, his voice calm and steady. “Time, Ms. Lane, flows much like ink upon a pristine page. Each word inscribes its course, shaping the narrative and imbuing it with a force that compels the reader. Yet, should a single word be misplaced, omitted, or stricken, the entire course of the tale may be altered.” In my state I fail to comprehend his words.
“I deeply lament my current inability to fully discern the cause of this disruption in time's flow. Yet, be assured, the departure of Mr. Kent shall not merely alter the course of your own fate; it will send tremors through the very tapestry of humanity's future. Much like a misplaced word in the grand symphony of history, such disturbances can unravel the harmony of the whole. However, in rare and fleeting moments, the universe affords us a slender aperture through which we may correct the course, a chance to restore balance to a discordant tale that echoes across the ages.”
“Are you saying it is possible to save Clark?” As my brain is still processing the news, I need to know the most important thing.
“Though I cannot promise a voyage devoid of peril, I can assure you it is undertaken with the sole intent of mending a rift in the very fabric of life’s eternal narrative. Rectify an event that has, in no small measure, affected your own existence.”
His gaze meets mine, steadfast and sincere. “Ms. Lane,” he begins, his voice composed yet insistent, “though it may seem improbable. My purpose is to convince you of my sincerity.” He settles into the chair beside me. “I do not seek unquestioning faith, but rather your thoughtful consideration.”
As the meaning of Wells' proposition sinks in, my mind races with memories of you, your strength, your kindness, the way you made me feel safe. I remember your smile, the way it could light up even my darkest days and the gentle timbre of your voice, always calm and reassuring. These memories, once a source of comfort, now begin to fuel my resolve. I can't let fear hold me back. Not when there's a chance, however slim, to bring you back.
The silence stretches between us.
My gaze falls again on the man, claiming to be Wells, my eyes reflecting the turmoil within. “If this is a joke, it's in extremely poor taste,” I tell him, my voice steady despite the chaos in my mind. “But if you're telling the truth, if this is real…” I let my words trail off.
The skepticism battles with the raw ache of loss in my heart. The possibility of saving Superman, of undoing Lex Luthor's final, cruel victory, tempts me like a siren’s call. Yet, the journalist in me demands more proof, tangible evidence that Wells’ claims aren’t the ramblings of a lunatic.
“Mr. Kent,” he persists, the gravity of those words pressing upon me like a heavy stone. “He has already altered the narrative of humanity’s fate on numerous occasions, yet the final chapter of his purpose remains unwritten.”
Something in his tone compels me to lean in, to unravel the layers of mystery. My heart races, adrenaline surging through my veins. A new kind of hope blooms within me, fragile yet tenacious. Against all odds, could there be a chance?
Perhaps it's desperation that drives me, the knowledge that I seem to have nothing left to lose. I assess him - the set of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes. Maybe he's a harmless eccentric, a relic from another era, though one not so far back as he claims. Or maybe, just maybe, he holds the key to my heart’s wishes.
His gaze, intense and unwavering, bores into my skepticism. In that fleeting moment, I catch a glimpse of familiarity in his eyes - a connection that transcends mere coincidence, almost as if we have known each other in another realm.
"New Krypton," he explains, "is home to the remaining survivors of his world. A few thousand souls managed to escape the destruction of their planet, though they found themselves stranded upon a barren, inhospitable land where survival is a relentless challenge. I have learned that two of them ventured to Earth ahead of the others, seeking Mr. Kent. New Krypton faced considerable political turmoil, for it seems that, in their society, he was regarded as a lord - Kal-El, as they know him - was their final hope to prevent another - less upstanding - nobleman from seizing power. But more followed them here and upon discovering not only Earth’s verdant lands but also that they possessed the same extraordinary abilities as Mr. Kent, they laid claim to it.” Wells clasps my hand and continues.
H.G. Wells, with a solemn expression, gestures toward the issue of the Daily Planet. “We must act,” he urges, his voice a blend of desperation and hope. “The future is not immutable. We possess the means to alter it, to save Mr. Kent - and perhaps the world.”
“If we remain idle, humanity is doomed,” he declares, his voice filled with conviction. “When it became evident that conventional military forces were powerless against the Kryptonians, Star Labs intervened. They had acquired a Kryptonite cage, along with a small sample of the crystal. In their desperation, they sought to replicate it, attempting to create a poisonous gas to pollute the air and even constructing bombs with the substance. Yet nothing proved sufficient. For every Kryptonian slain, they razed a city, sometimes entire regions...”
I lean forward, my skepticism sharpening into a blade. “And my role in all this? How will I be able to stop an entire alien race, even with the help of Superman?”
He hesitates, gauging my reaction and decides to grab my hand. "You," he says, "played a part in shaping Superman." After a short pause he adds, “And you are an integral part of his strength. It might not have been much to you - but your unwavering support gave him the strength to go on, even when others deserted him and even when he felt he couldn’t.”
I scoff internally. Me? I kept insulting every aspect of your life to the point where part of me still doesn’t understand why your parents have taken me in after your death. But Wells is unyielding and his paper is dated September 1996, almost two years from now. A tangible item of proof from a future I can't fathom.
As I listen, skepticism wars with curiosity and I find myself caught in the crossfire of disbelief and wonder. But this isn't fiction; it's Wells's reality - or so he claims.
“Ms. Lane,” Wells persists, his voice urgent. His words echo through the room, bouncing off disbelief and hope. If he's right - if he truly is a time traveler - then perhaps I can rewrite fate.
“Assist me in preserving his life!” he implores, desperation palpable. I could shove him out the door, dismiss him as a lunatic. Nothing would change for me - but if there’s the slightest chance of getting you back, shouldn’t I do everything in my power to grab onto that possibility?
Unbidden, hope surges, a cruel, tantalizing flame that could either illuminate my path to fulfillment or scorch me with more pain.
What if it's true?
What if it isn’t?
“This can't be possible,” I mutter, torn between reason and longing. “It can't be that easy.” But deep down, I know: hope is a stubborn thing. It clings to the edges of our broken hearts, daring us to believe in the impossible.
Deep down, I believe this strange man. Deep down I know I have to.
As the seconds stretch, I make my choice. To trust, to step into the unknown. His eyes hold mine, earnest and unyielding. This man, this supposed time traveler, has my attention.
Here, in this room with a man who claims to traverse time, hope blooms like a fragile flower. I want to believe him - to believe in the impossible.
Slowly I realize there isn’t really a choice for me. With a slow exhale, I face the man who has brought hope back into my life. “Let’s set things right, Mr. Wells. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring hope back. What do I have to do?”
Wells produces a small, intricate device from his coat pocket. “This device,” he says, holding it out to her, “is a Temporal Resonator, akin to a time machine, able to transport a soul into an earlier point in their timeline.” The device hums with an otherworldly energy, its lights pulsing in a rhythm that seems to echo the beating of my heart. "However, I must caution you, the journey is fraught with peril. The fabric of time is exceedingly delicate and easily torn. A single misstep could have catastrophic repercussions. You must exercise utmost caution, for Mr. Luthor is a perilous adversary and your role is equally significant within the time’s endless tale.” He seems to consider his next words carefully.
“Given that you’ll be journeying into your immediate past, we cannot afford any direct interaction between you and your past self, creating possible time loops or a rupture of time‘s fabric. Consequently, I will only transmit your consciousness, a process that carries inherent risks. You might lose control, be compelled to relive past mistakes and still face the specter of failure.”
I weigh his words, the gravity of the decision anchoring me to the moment. The chance to save the man I love is within reach, but at what cost? The risks are immense, the stakes higher than any story I’ve ever chased.
“Tell me what I need to do,” determination steeling my voice. “If there’s even the slightest chance to save him, I have to take it.” I vow, “I’m willing to do anything.” Because sometimes, hope is the only weapon we have against the impossible.
He presses the button - the start button, I assume - and the world tilts. Not physically, but metaphysically. The air thickens and reality shivers like a mirage. A strange energy seems to collide with us and I hear glass shattering. Or maybe it’s the boundaries of time cracking open.
The shimmering intensifies and an unpleasant hum vibrates through my bones. My head throbs, as if the universe itself protests our meddling. I glimpse Wells, a dark blur, a shadow of purpose, something in his face tells me he’s concerned.
Then darkness swallows me whole.
And in that void, I wonder: have I stepped into madness or miracle? Is this the precipice of salvation or damnation? Only time will tell.
T. B. C.
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