Arthur did not return to the alley. Robert stood there for what felt like an eternity, the sun-warmed brick of the building at his back doing nothing to dispel the icy dread that had settled in his bones. He had gambled everything on a single, incredible truth, and the silence that followed felt like a verdict of guilty.
He walked back to the house alone, each step a leaden effort. The familiar streets of Oak Creek now felt like a hostile landscape. Every glance from a passerby felt accusatory. Had Arthur gone to the sheriff? Were men in suits already on their way?
He found the house empty. The silence inside was profound and unnerving. He climbed the stairs to his room, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He half-expected his few possessions to be packed, waiting for him by the door. But everything was as he had left it. The bed was made, the sun slanted through the floral curtains. It was the terrifying normalcy of it all that was the most frightening.
He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the axe to fall. Minutes stretched into an hour. He heard the back door open and close, the familiar sound of Eleanor moving about in the kitchen. There were no raised voices, no strange footsteps. Just the quiet, domestic sounds of a late afternoon.
Supper that night was a funeral. Eleanor, sensing the tectonic shift between the two men, kept her eyes on her plate, her usual cheerful chatter extinguished. Arthur ate methodically, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the wall. He did not look at Robert. He did not speak to him. The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery and the oppressive tick of the grandfather clock.
Robert could barely swallow. Every bite of food was like ash. This silent treatment was worse than anger, worse than being thrown out. It was a void, a refusal to even acknowledge the reality he had presented.
After the meal, Arthur stood and, without a word, walked out onto the back porch. Robert sat frozen at the table until Eleanor gently touched his shoulder. "Go on," she whispered, her eyes full of a confused sorrow. "He's waiting for you."
Robert's legs felt weak as he pushed back his chair and walked to the porch. Arthur was standing at the railing, looking out over the darkening yard, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the twilight. He didn't turn as Robert approached.
The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire. Finally, Arthur spoke, his voice low and gravelly, worn down by a day of unthinkable thoughts.
"I talked to Pastor Miller," he said, not turning around. "Not about you. About… doubt. About whether a man's eyes and ears can betray him. Whether God would ever allow a thing like you've described."
Robert held his breath.
"He talked about faith. About accepting things beyond our understanding." Arthur finally turned, and his face in the dim light was that of an old, tired man. "I am a simple man, Robert. I believe in wood that is straight and nails that hold. I believe in the sun rising in the east. I don't have the… the architecture in my mind for a story like yours."
He paused, gathering himself. "But I believe in what I've seen. I've seen you look at a broken radio and see its soul. I've seen you draw a bridge support that men with degrees are now building. I've seen the terror in your eyes when you read the newspaper, a terror that has nothing to do with bank failures and everything to do with… something else. Something you already know."
He took a step closer, his eyes searching Robert's face. "So I am left with a choice. I can believe you are the most cunning liar and madman I have ever met, a threat to my home. Or I can believe the impossible. That you are a man… lost. Truly, utterly lost."
He fell silent, the weight of his decision hanging in the air between them. The scent of honeysuckle from a nearby vine, once sweet, now felt cloying and funereal.
"What happens now?" Robert whispered, his voice raw.
"Now," Arthur said, his shoulders slumping in resignation, "you stay. Not because I fully believe you. But because I don't believe you mean us harm. And because a man doesn't turn out a lost soul, even one from… elsewhere." He said the last word with a quiet, bewildered awe. "But you must understand. This changes nothing, and it changes everything. You cannot speak of this. Not to anyone. Ever. You are Robert Vale, my assistant. A man with a good head on his shoulders and a troubled past. That is the story. We will live that story until…" He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
Until the end of my days, Robert thought with a surge of bleak despair. There was no "until." This was it.
Arthur turned back to the yard, dismissing him. "We have a chest of drawers to build for the Hendersons tomorrow. We'll need an early start."
Robert went back inside, the screen door clicking shut behind him like the seal on a tomb. He had been granted a stay of execution. He had a roof, a purpose, a name. But the cost was the final and complete burial of the man he used to be. He was no longer a time traveler hiding his identity. He was a permanent resident of the past, his truth a shared, unspeakable secret.
He climbed the stairs to his room, the weight of Arthur's fearful, bewildered belief a heavier burden than any suspicion. He had told the truth, and in doing so, had chained himself to this time more firmly than any malfunctioning machine ever could. He was safe, for now. But as he lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of a 1935 night, he had never felt more imprisoned.