The Last Photograph

She had always loved old photographs. The sepia tones, the faded edges, the glimpses of a bygone era. She collected them from flea markets, antique shops, and online auctions. She framed them and hung them on her walls, creating a collage of strangers’ memories.

She didn’t know why she was drawn to them. Maybe it was because she felt lonely and disconnected from her own time. Maybe it was because she had a secret wish to travel back and experience a different life.

One day, she found a photograph that changed everything. It was a portrait of a young woman in a Victorian dress, holding a parasol and smiling at the camera. She had curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a dimple on her chin. She looked exactly like her.

She bought the photograph without hesitation and took it home. She examined it closely, looking for clues about the woman’s identity and the date of the picture. She found nothing but a faint inscription on the back: “To my dearest Alice, with love from Henry.”

She wondered who Alice and Henry were. Were they lovers? Friends? Relatives? She wished she could ask them. If by some stroke of good luck, she might have met them.

She decided to do some research on the Internet. She typed in “Alice Henry Victorian photograph” and hit enter. She scrolled through the results, hoping to find something relevant.

She clicked on a link that caught her eye. It was an article about a mysterious disappearance that occurred in 1898. A young woman named Alice Walker vanished without a trace after visiting a photographer’s studio in London. She had gone there to have her portrait taken as a gift for her fiancé, Henry Collins. The police had found no clues or suspects. The case had stayed perplexing.

She gasped as she looked at the photograph attached to the article. It was the same one she had bought. It was her.

She felt a sudden chill in the air. She looked around and realized she was no longer in her apartment. She was in a dark room with wooden walls and shelves full of chemicals and equipment. She smelled something consuming.

She heard strides outside the entryway. She panicked and looked for a way out. She saw a window covered by a curtain. She ran towards it and pulled it aside.

She screamed as she saw what was outside. It was not her city. It was not her time.

It was London in 1898.

She heard the door open behind her. She turned and saw a man holding a camera and a flash powder tray. He had a beard, glasses, and a bowler hat.

He smiled and said, “Hello, Miss Walker. I’m sorry for the delay. Is it true that you are prepared for your photo?”

She shook her head and backed away from him. “No, no, no,” she stammered. “This is a mistake. I’m not Alice Walker. I’m not from here.”

He frowned and tilted his head. “What are you talking about? You are Alice Walker. You came here yesterday to book an appointment for today.”

He showed her a ledger with her name and address written on it.

She stared at it in disbelief. How could this be? How did he know her name? How did he have her address?

She looked at the photograph again. It was still in her hand. She noticed something she hadn’t seen before.

There was a small tear in the corner of the picture.

She felt a surge of fear and realization.

She was aware of what had occurred.

She had somehow torn the fabric of time with her curiosity.

She had created a paradox.

She had become Alice Walker.

And Alice Walker had become her.

She dropped the photograph on the floor and ran towards the door.

She pushed past the man and ran out of the studio.

She ran into the crowded street, dodging carriages and pedestrians.

She looked for a way back to her time.

But there was none.

She was trapped in 1898.

And she knew what would happen next.

She would disappear without a trace.

And no one would ever find out what happened to her.

Except for one person.

The person who would buy her photograph in the future.

The person who looked exactly like her.