The Man Who Lived Yesterday

Edwin Carter woke up to the sound of church bells ringing in the distance. The crisp morning air carried the scent of damp cobblestones and freshly baked bread. As he blinked at the wooden beams of the ceiling above him, a cold dread settled in his chest.

This wasn’t his bed.

This wasn’t his time.

Again.

He sat up abruptly, his breath quickening. Outside the small inn window, the narrow streets of 19th-century London bustled with life—horse-drawn carriages clattered along the uneven roads, women in bonneted hats rushed past, and the distant hum of street vendors filled the air. He had been here before.

Many times before.

Edwin scrambled out of bed, his feet meeting the cold wooden floor. He reached for the pocket watch on the nightstand, flipping it open with trembling fingers. The hands were frozen at six past eleven, just like every other morning he had woken up in the past. The date on the small engraving inside the cover confirmed his fear: March 14, 1872.

He was trapped in yesterday.

For what felt like an eternity, Edwin had been waking up on the same day, in the same place, in the same body. At first, he thought it was a dream—some vivid nightmare brought on by exhaustion. But as the days repeated, and his memories carried over while the world remained the same, he realized he was caught in something far worse.

Fate was punishing him.

Each day, he tried something different. He had fled the city, only to wake up the next morning right back in this bed. Edwin had confessed his predicament to strangers, but they laughed or called him mad. He had even taken drastic measures—throwing himself into the Thames in a moment of despair—only to jolt awake once again at the chime of the church bells.

But today would be different. It had to be.

Edwin dressed swiftly, pulling on his worn waistcoat and boots. He knew where he had to go. The one place he had avoided until now.

The Carter Estate.

As he stepped into the morning light, the mist curled around his boots. He moved through the streets, past shopkeepers setting up their wares, past the factory workers heading to their shifts. The city smelled of soot and ambition.

The estate loomed ahead—his childhood home, a grand yet cold structure on the outskirts of the city. It had been years since he had last seen it, and yet, in this cursed repetition of time, it remained unchanged. The ivy clung to the stone walls, the great oak doors stood firm, and beyond them, his father’s presence still haunted the halls.

Edwin hesitated before knocking. He knew what lay beyond. He had lived this day before.

The door opened to reveal a butler who barely spared him a glance before stepping aside. Edwin stepped into the grand foyer, the scent of polished wood and old books filling his senses.

“Sir Edwin,” came a voice from the top of the grand staircase.

His father.

Lord Reginald Carter descended with deliberate steps, his sharp eyes scanning his son. He was a man of unyielding discipline, a man who saw emotion as weakness. Edwin had spent his entire life trying to prove himself to him, only to fail time and time again.

“You have returned,” his father stated more observation than welcome.

Edwin swallowed, his mind racing. This was the moment. The moment he had to change.

“I have come to right a wrong,” Edwin said, his voice steady.

His father raised a brow. “And which wrong would that be?”

Edwin clenched his fists. He had spent years running from his father’s expectations, from the obligations of the Carter name. And yet, time had dragged him back here, again and again. What if the only way to break the cycle was to face the truth he had ignored?

“I ran from my responsibilities,” Edwin admitted. “I abandoned my duty. But I see now that some fates cannot be escaped.”

His father regarded him for a long moment. Then, with the slightest nod, he turned on his heel and walked toward the study—a silent invitation.

Edwin followed.

As he stepped into the dimly lit room, he felt something shift. A weight lifting, the suffocating loop loosening its grip.

This may be the answer.

Maybe, at last, he could wake up tomorrow.