It all started with Cassie being Cassie. We were lounging around the park — Leo, Cassie, and I — when she spotted it: an old phone booth, leaning sideways like it had endured a thousand storms.
“Bet you all can’t squeeze inside,” Cassie challenged, her grin stretching ear to ear. Leo groaned.
“What’s the point?”
“No point,” Cassie replied. “Just to prove you can’t do it.” That was all it took. Leo can never back down from a challenge, and as soon as he stepped inside, Cassie followed. I hesitated, but she nudged me.
“C’mon, Maya. Don’t chicken out.” Reluctantly, I climbed in. The booth was cramped. My elbow jabbed Leo’s ribs, and Cassie's backpack squished my face, as her laughter echoed against the glass. The booth groaned under our weight, the lights flickered, and suddenly — boom. Everything went black. When the door creaked open, sunlight poured in, but the air felt . . . different. Cleaner, fresher, like it had just rained. The park looked almost the same, but the playground equipment was missing, and the path was just a dirt trail.
“Where are we?” Cassie asked, stepping out cautiously. Leo pointed at the street beyond the park.
“Uh, when are we, might be a better question.” We all turned to see vintage cars rolling by, the kind you’d only see in history books. A man in a fedora tipped his hat to us as he passed, and a nearby movie theater advertised a film from the 1960s.
“No way,” I muttered. “We didn’t just . . . travel back in time.” But it was undeniable. Somehow, the booth had hurled us decades into the past. I wanted to figure out how it worked, but everyone else was too excited to stay put.
“Let’s explore,” Leo said, already striding out of the park. We wandered into town, marveling at everything. The soda shop, the old-fashioned streetlights, and the people dressed like they were extras in a retro TV show. I kept looking at the people. Their expressions. Their eyes. Wondering what they were thinking. Wondering if they had any idea how much the world would change. That’s the kind of stuff I think about. I’m the one who always overthinks, always wonders what things mean. Cassie jumps in headfirst, and Leo’s all action and instincts. But me? I’m the one who stands back and tries to see the bigger picture.
Then we saw him — a boy about our age, sitting near an alley. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
“We should speak to him,” Leo said, already charging forward.
“Wait!” I called after him. “What if we mess something up? We don’t know how time travel works.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna stand here and do nothing,” Leo shot back.
Cassie and I followed. The boy glanced up and smiled at us, before looking us up and down and giving us a weird look. I realized how ridiculous I must’ve looked to him, jeans and a T-shirt and all.
“I'm Theo. Why are you guys dressed so strangely?”
Theo. My stomach flipped. His face. I’d seen that face in photo albums.
“Y-You’re my grandpa. Theodore. Right?” I spluttered.
Theo laughed. “Grandpa? You’re nuts.”
“We’re from the future,” Cassie blurted, grinning like she’d just told a joke.
I wanted to facepalm. Theo shrugged.
"Whatever you say."
I almost rolled my eyes. Of course, he didn't believe us. People here probably didn't have computers yet. Leo convinced Theo to show us around town. We walked together, Theo pointing out places he liked — his school, a park he used to play in, a corner store where he once snuck candy. The more he talked, the more my chest tightened. He had no idea. No idea who I was, or what his future held.
I kept stealing glances, looking for traces of the grandpa I knew — the one who used to sneak me gumdrops, who made up stories on the spot, and always smiled even when he was sick. For a while, I forgot I was supposed to be cautious. I laughed. I listened. I memorized his voice.
But as the afternoon wore on, I felt uneasy. It wasn’t just the outdated fashion or the lack of modern conveniences. Grandpa Theo had died a year ago. I still remember sitting in his hospital room, the way he used to tell me stories about his childhood — stories I hadn’t paid enough attention to because I never imagined I’d get to see it myself. And now, here he was, right in front of me. Young, full of life, with no idea what was waiting for him in the future. The thought made my stomach turn.
"I don't like this," Cassie whispered. "Let's go back." I nodded and pulled them away, having to drag an unwilling Leo back to the phone booth, running into the dirt trail and cramming back into the booth. With a sharp whoosh, the phone booth dimmed, and suddenly, we were back in the park. I stumbled out, breathing hard. Everything felt . . . normal. The cars, the air, the people. But my mind was still back there, in the ‘60s.
Part of me wished I could’ve stayed just a little longer.
“Bet you all can’t squeeze inside,” Cassie challenged, her grin stretching ear to ear. Leo groaned.
“What’s the point?”
“No point,” Cassie replied. “Just to prove you can’t do it.” That was all it took. Leo can never back down from a challenge, and as soon as he stepped inside, Cassie followed. I hesitated, but she nudged me.
“C’mon, Maya. Don’t chicken out.” Reluctantly, I climbed in. The booth was cramped. My elbow jabbed Leo’s ribs, and Cassie's backpack squished my face, as her laughter echoed against the glass. The booth groaned under our weight, the lights flickered, and suddenly — boom. Everything went black. When the door creaked open, sunlight poured in, but the air felt . . . different. Cleaner, fresher, like it had just rained. The park looked almost the same, but the playground equipment was missing, and the path was just a dirt trail.
“Where are we?” Cassie asked, stepping out cautiously. Leo pointed at the street beyond the park.
“Uh, when are we, might be a better question.” We all turned to see vintage cars rolling by, the kind you’d only see in history books. A man in a fedora tipped his hat to us as he passed, and a nearby movie theater advertised a film from the 1960s.
“No way,” I muttered. “We didn’t just . . . travel back in time.” But it was undeniable. Somehow, the booth had hurled us decades into the past. I wanted to figure out how it worked, but everyone else was too excited to stay put.
“Let’s explore,” Leo said, already striding out of the park. We wandered into town, marveling at everything. The soda shop, the old-fashioned streetlights, and the people dressed like they were extras in a retro TV show. I kept looking at the people. Their expressions. Their eyes. Wondering what they were thinking. Wondering if they had any idea how much the world would change. That’s the kind of stuff I think about. I’m the one who always overthinks, always wonders what things mean. Cassie jumps in headfirst, and Leo’s all action and instincts. But me? I’m the one who stands back and tries to see the bigger picture.
Then we saw him — a boy about our age, sitting near an alley. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
“We should speak to him,” Leo said, already charging forward.
“Wait!” I called after him. “What if we mess something up? We don’t know how time travel works.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not gonna stand here and do nothing,” Leo shot back.
Cassie and I followed. The boy glanced up and smiled at us, before looking us up and down and giving us a weird look. I realized how ridiculous I must’ve looked to him, jeans and a T-shirt and all.
“I'm Theo. Why are you guys dressed so strangely?”
Theo. My stomach flipped. His face. I’d seen that face in photo albums.
“Y-You’re my grandpa. Theodore. Right?” I spluttered.
Theo laughed. “Grandpa? You’re nuts.”
“We’re from the future,” Cassie blurted, grinning like she’d just told a joke.
I wanted to facepalm. Theo shrugged.
"Whatever you say."
I almost rolled my eyes. Of course, he didn't believe us. People here probably didn't have computers yet. Leo convinced Theo to show us around town. We walked together, Theo pointing out places he liked — his school, a park he used to play in, a corner store where he once snuck candy. The more he talked, the more my chest tightened. He had no idea. No idea who I was, or what his future held.
I kept stealing glances, looking for traces of the grandpa I knew — the one who used to sneak me gumdrops, who made up stories on the spot, and always smiled even when he was sick. For a while, I forgot I was supposed to be cautious. I laughed. I listened. I memorized his voice.
But as the afternoon wore on, I felt uneasy. It wasn’t just the outdated fashion or the lack of modern conveniences. Grandpa Theo had died a year ago. I still remember sitting in his hospital room, the way he used to tell me stories about his childhood — stories I hadn’t paid enough attention to because I never imagined I’d get to see it myself. And now, here he was, right in front of me. Young, full of life, with no idea what was waiting for him in the future. The thought made my stomach turn.
"I don't like this," Cassie whispered. "Let's go back." I nodded and pulled them away, having to drag an unwilling Leo back to the phone booth, running into the dirt trail and cramming back into the booth. With a sharp whoosh, the phone booth dimmed, and suddenly, we were back in the park. I stumbled out, breathing hard. Everything felt . . . normal. The cars, the air, the people. But my mind was still back there, in the ‘60s.
Part of me wished I could’ve stayed just a little longer.