The first thing Matthew Clarke noticed was the sound of birds chirping in the distance, their calls sharp and clear. He opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through the wooden beams of a barn, dust motes dancing in its golden glow. His head throbbed as if he'd been struck, and his body felt heavy, unused to its own weight.
He shifted, feeling the scratchy texture of hay beneath him. Groaning, he attempted to sit up, but his muscles protested. The last thing he remembered was collapsing onto his couch after a long day grading midterms. Now he was here—wherever here was.
"Easy there, lad," a deep voice said.
Matthew turned his head and saw a wiry man standing in the barn doorway. The man's face was lined with age and sunburned from long days outdoors. He wore simple clothes—a homespun shirt tucked into coarse trousers, suspenders barely holding them in place.
"Where… where am I?" Matthew croaked, his throat dry and scratchy.
The man approached and squatted beside him, offering a ladle filled with water from a nearby bucket. "You're lucky I found you out there in the woods. Thought you were dead, the state you were in."
Matthew sipped the water gratefully, though his confusion deepened. The man's speech wasn't just old-fashioned—it sounded like it belonged to another century.
"What's your name?" the man asked.
"Uh… Matthew," he said, his voice hesitant.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Matthew? That's a fine name, but your folks called you Michael, didn't they? Michael Clarke?"
"Michael?" Matthew blinked, startled. "No, I'm not—" He stopped short, noticing something strange. His hands—once soft and pale from years of academic work—were rough and calloused, the hands of someone who labored outdoors.
The man stood, studying him carefully. "You hit your head pretty hard, didn't you? Don't worry, lad. James and Eliza will sort you out."
James and Eliza? Matthew's confusion deepened, but before he could ask more questions, the man waved toward the barn door. "Come on, then. Let's get you inside before you catch a chill."
---
Outside the barn, Matthew was met with a scene straight out of a history book. A small wooden cabin sat at the center of a clearing, surrounded by split-rail fences. Chickens scratched at the dirt, and a cow grazed lazily nearby. Smoke curled from the chimney, carrying the scent of burning wood and something faintly sweet—perhaps stew.
As they approached, the door opened, and a woman in her forties stepped out. Her hair was tucked beneath a bonnet, and her apron was smudged with flour. She wiped her hands on it, her gaze softening as she saw Matthew.
"Thank heavens, John! You found him!"
"Aye, but he's a bit confused," the man—John—replied. "Thinks his name is Matthew."
The woman frowned, stepping closer to place a hand on Matthew's forehead. "You're burning up, lad. Come inside and rest. You've had quite the ordeal."
As they ushered him into the cabin, Matthew's mind raced. This wasn't just strange—it was impossible. The cabin's interior was sparse but cozy, with handmade furniture and a fire crackling in the hearth. Everything screamed authenticity, from the woven rugs to the iron cooking pot hanging over the flames.
"I need to get back," Matthew blurted out, panic creeping into his voice.
The woman exchanged a concerned glance with John. "Back where? You're home now, Michael. You've been here with us for years."
"No, I—" Matthew stopped, realizing the absurdity of trying to explain himself. These people seemed genuinely convinced he was someone else. And when he caught his reflection in a polished copper plate on the wall, he froze.
The face staring back wasn't his own. It was younger, leaner, and framed by sandy brown hair. The eyes, though familiar, belonged to someone else entirely.
"What's happening to me?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
---
That Evening
Over dinner, Matthew—now Michael, as they called him—tried to piece together his situation. John was a neighbor, and James and Eliza Clarke were his "parents." They had come from Scotland a few years earlier, joining the wave of immigrants seeking a new life in the Midwest.
"You've always been a quiet one," Eliza said with a smile as she ladled stew into his bowl. "But you're a hard worker, and we couldn't ask for a better son."
Matthew nodded absently, his appetite dulled by anxiety. He listened as James and John discussed the challenges of frontier life—preparing for winter, dealing with wild animals, and rumors of outlaws in the area.
"Folks say Silas Blackthorn's gang was spotted near the river," John said, his tone grim.
James grunted. "We'll deal with them if they come this way. But first, we've got to finish the new fence before the frost sets in."
Matthew's mind raced. Silas Blackthorn? That name sounded like something out of a dime novel. And the more he listened, the more convinced he became that this wasn't a dream or a prank. Somehow, he had traveled back in time.
After dinner, Matthew excused himself and stepped outside. The night was crisp, the sky a blanket of stars unlike anything he'd ever seen in modern times. The air was alive with the chirping of crickets and the distant howl of a wolf.
He clenched his fists, feeling the roughness of his new hands. "This isn't possible," he murmured, his breath visible in the chilly air. "This can't be real."
But the evidence was undeniable. Somehow, he was here—in the 18th century, in the Midwest, living someone else's life.
And he had no idea how to get back.