The door to your house/flat/apartment/abode has come unstuck in time. The next time you walk through it, you find yourself in the same place, but a different time entirely. Where are you, and what happens next?
Stepping on to the porch I unlock the door, turn the handle and push it open expecting my cats to come running, well at least the oldest. As I open the door I step over the threshold and find myself not in my apartment but in a family’s home. The stair case to the second floor is visible, the door that made it a closet isn’t there. The squishy rug is not under my feet, instead is a hard linoleum covered floor. I do not recognize my home because it’s not my home, it belongs to a family that resides on both floors of the building. A family I don’t know. People who came before me. When did it become two family home not a single family, I don’t know. I’m just a renter. I haven’t a connection to this building, not like those who built it or those who lived several years of their life in it. The living room has an excessive amount of Catholic wall hangings and such. Several photos of the family hang on the wall. The time period cannot be determined. The house isn’t too old to begin with, traveling back things look new. Maine having been behind the times anyways, it could be the 50s or maybe more recent. I feel as if I’m intruding in to a home that technically is mine but isn’t at the same time. An image of Marty McFly pops in to my head. I don’t dare continue in any further. I quietly retreat through the door I haven’t shut yet, back on to the porch. Have I returned to my time?