H. G. Wells is finally, finally, going home. For too long she roamed the globe, protecting Artie and the world from the repercussions of the warehouse's rebirth. Now Helena is stopped a mere hour outside of Univille, waiting impatiently in line for the gas station clerk. She had tried to ignore the little red warning light, only stopping after thoroughly cursing the automobile's insatiable need for petrol. The family size bag of red twizzlers was the latest of her many "I'm sorry/I missed you" gifts she had collected in her travels. The large man in front of her shuffled off. Helena met the hazy eyes of the bored youth who would be handling her transaction. She stepped forward with a polite smile. In a fairly deep tone the young man began his standard "Is that al-he said that I couldn't!" a high pitched girl exclaimed. Helena blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change in sounds and sights. Curious brown eyes catalogued her new environment. Tan walls, dark accents, the overwhelming smell of coffee, bistro style tables and chairs, guitar music and solo singer crooning in the background, an entirely too excitable group of teenage girls to her right, and a soft green leather journal (with sporadic darker spots) in front of her. She was in a coffee shop. It took mere moments for her to parse out what had happened. Her body had been high-jacked by a time traveller. "Cheeky bugger," the time traveller in her own right smirked to herself even as she opened the tear stained journal in front of her. Her curiosity always was her best attribute.

Emily,

If you are reading this then it can only mean that I have failed. That is the unfortunate thing about time, the more we attempt to change it the more stable it becomes. It falls now to you to pick up where I left off. I know right now you are concerned with one thing, one thing that has been so long in coming, with going home. To have a home after Christina must seem like a miracle. Indeed, a home such as Myka is the greatest of miracles. My home has burned down. It has been destroyed from the inside by the most insidious and undefeatable of foes. My Myka is dead. She died thirteen years ago of ovarian cancer.

I spent a short while after her death rebuilding my time machine. I spent the rest of that time seeking a way to save her. As with my dearest Christina each attempt only took me further from success, further towards madness. I am too stubborn for any good. To prevent my personal history from repeating I am making one last attempt. If this does not succeed, if you are reading this, then Claudia has honored my wishes and I am no longer anywhere in time. I have done things that I swore, upon Myka, that I would never again contemplate. It seemed so pointless, so dark without her guiding light. How is it that my soul is so immersed in this accursed darkness? In my quest I have destroyed what little of her legacy remained. I cannot stand to have her hate me. I have nothing left but this simple plea that you do what I could not. When the future most foul comes to pass, let her go.

Helena Grace Wells (2027)

Emily Lake closed the book containing the letter from a dead woman. She left it there, sitting forlornly alone on the table, as she walked calmly out the door.