June 2, 1888

CHARLOTTE WAS LITERALLY SHOVED BACK TO REALITY. She blinked furiously, not realizing she was falling until she had stumbled back onto the ground, her head landing on a blanket spread across uneven ground. It took some time before her vision finally cleared and she could see the world around her, but even as she rubbed at her eyes and felt the ground around her, she instantly knew that she was still alive.

She hadn't died.

Before she could start to spiral—the realization that she wasn't dead came with more implications and questions than any one mind could reasonably handle at the same time, especially with no support—she was forced into the very real present now, locking eyes with a young child who was staring at her like she had grown an extra head.

"Mum, what's wrong?" the little girl asked, and Charlotte, still reeling from the shock of not being dead, fell into autopilot; it was a comfort to know she still had her usual maternal instinct.

"Nothing, sweetheart," she said, taking the little girl's hands in her own, looking around, "So, uh, what is it that we're doing?"

"We're having a picnic, mum," the little girl responded, motioning towards their small spread, giving her a toothy grin, "Why are you being so silly?"

"I-I don't know," Charlotte replied, laughing breezily, everything coming second nature to her despite her predicament, "I guess it's just an extra happy day. Where's your brother?"

She didn't have the time to wonder how she knew that her daughter had a brother before something barreled into her from behind, nearly knocking her back over, lips pulling into a smile as peals of laughter filled her ears.

"William, honestly!" she cried, pulling her son into her lap and tickling him, "You could've knocked me over into the food!"

"Mum's right, Will, stop being a baby," her daughter huffed, reaching over to pinch her little brother who cried out, swatting at her hands.

"Martha," Charlotte chastised, shooing her daughter's hands away, "There's no need for that. William, you need to be more careful, and, you, young lady, need to learn to be patient. You learn to be more careful as you grow up, he's not as old as you."

Martha grumbled, but reached out to rub at the spot where she had pinched her brother, as much of an apology as she was probably going to give at the moment. She had been that way since she was little, always finding other ways to show her remorse rather than saying the two words that Charlotte always had to wrestle out of her.

"Where's your father?" she asked, because she was certain he was supposed to be with them, but, then again, she couldn't remember much from that morning.

"He's at home, ma, remember? He got hurt at work?" William said, and Charlotte was suddenly bombarded with memories that were somehow her own.

She tightened her arms around her son as flashes of her husband's broken hand filled her mind, late night fights about money and work and getting food on the table echoing in her ears, and it was a wonder that she was able to catch up with all of this at once.

She had a feeling it was all going to come crashing down.

But she had a job to do, so she plastered on a smile, laughed at her forgetfulness, and told her children to start eating, folding her hands in her lap as she waited for them to eat their fill, planning on finishing whatever they didn't.

While they ate, she took the time to look around, trying to make sense of everything around her. Her mind filled in the blanks for whatever she didn't know, but it was as if it was another person entirely, catching her up on the new world, though doing nothing to ease her panic and confusion.

She tried to think back to her life before—the life she actually had, not the life she had stepped into—and found that she couldn't remember much. She couldn't remember anything before she was alone with her husband and the midwife, trying not to show how terrified she was, holding her husband's hand.

Her husband. Her husband with a name. She struggled to remember, sifting through as many names as she knew, most without any faces to tie to, others tied to faces she didn't recognize, but no matter how hard she tried and how many names she listed, she couldn't connect a single one to her husband.

"Mum?" William called, tugging on her skirt, "Are you okay?"

She blinked furiously, finding both of her children finished with their food and staring up at her with clear concern, and Charlotte had to wonder just how horrible her children's life was going to be now that she had stepped into this new existence. Then another horrible thought entered her mind: Was she even still herself?

Shaking, she looked around for a mirror or something to check her reflection in, terrified of what she might fight. Her hands seemed to be the same, though her clothes definitely weren't. Her hair was tucked under a bonnet, and she knew she wouldn't be able to check until they returned home.

"Mum," Martha tried, this time grabbing her arm, "Can we go home now? You don't look well."

"I'm fine," Charlotte replied, but she was choked up, trying to subtly clear her throat, "But, yes, I think it would be best if we go home."

She tried to compose herself, trying not to overthink the basic steps of cleaning up, tucking everything back inside the basket she had brought with them, making sure that her children's clothes were righted and clean before they started on their way back home.

How she knew how to get there was another matter entirely. 

By some miracle—which, considering the circumstances, she was inclined to see as such—they made it home. The first thought she had was that it was bigger than her previous home, then her second was the realization that she couldn't actually remember anything more about her previous home other than its size relative to her new one. 

There were three bedrooms that held nothing more than beds and, in the children's case, a few toys, most handmade, though some clearly bought. Her children were on holiday, the next school term not starting until the fall, and from the way they had managed to make a mess of their already sparse living space, that fact didn't surprise her in the least. 

She didn't move from where she lingered in the living room, trying to make sense of everything. They didn't seem to be in too dire straits, though considering her husband was currently injured, she wasn't sure how long it would be until there was no hiding their troubles.

"Charlotte?"

She startled, but a wave of relief washed over her before she could even pinpoint why, her feet making the short trip to the room she shared with the husband she had yet to meet. It was only when she stepped through the door, catching sight of the simple mirror atop their equally simple dresser, that she realized why she felt such relief.

Stepping into the general view of the mirror, she took off her bonnet, revealing the dark hair she had known all her life—her original life, anyways—every other feature the same as she had remembered it, save for the birth mark that was on the side of her neck, though it was hardly noticeable with her clothes.

Even with the birthmark, she couldn't help the tears that pricked her eyes at the confirmation that, somehow, she was still the same. This wasn't a dream, this was real, she could see herself, and she was the same. For the most part, anyways, and that was all that mattered.

"Charlotte, love, what's wrong?" her husband asked, he and his children having just watched her enter the room and ignore them entirely, staring at her reflection, "Did something happen to your face?"

"No," Charlotte replied, her voice breaking as she whirled around, finally acknowledging the man she was now expected to love.

She feared what would become of her mind when she finally looked at him. Feared she would forget her old life entirely, forget that she loved her husband—she couldn't remember much else, but what she clung to was the truth that they were in love—forget that she hadn't just stepped into this new life earlier that afternoon and had yet to confirm her last name.

But when she looked at the man, nothing more was forgotten. She could still remember the existence of her old husband, the reality of her previous life, but the sight of her new husband triggered a series of memories more powerful than the other ones, and while they appeared instantaneously, hardly even a beat, but it felt like hours before her mind was allowed to rest.

A split second and she saw a life flash before her eyes; it wasn't until after that she would be able to accept it as hers. 

She saw a couple that she registered as her parents, despite looking so different. Saw her childhood, when the older brother died, when she was sent to work with her mother when she was a teenager, when she met her husband some time later. She saw their courting, their wedding, the time she fell so ill they feared she wouldn't make it. The birth of their daughter, when she was forced to find work to support the family, how her husband never recovered from the embarrassment of needing his wife to work. How overjoyed he had been when she had to quit her job due to William's pregnancy, then how terrified when she was nearly lost during childbirth. Her taking care of the children, her husband's accident, the fear of him lashing out compelling her to take the children out for their meager picnic that very morning.

Hardly a breath was taken and she was finally caught up; at least in the broad strokes. 

"I'm fine," she added, lips pulling into an easy smile, "Just a little tired, I suppose." 

That seemed to appease her family, her husband relaxing and nodding in understanding, her children climbing out of the bed at their father's command to let her lie down, and she watched them go, realizing just how tired she was once her head hit the pillow.

"How was the picnic?" her husband, Robert, asked, turning on his side to look at her, broken hand between them.

"Good," she said, mirroring his position, looking him in the eye to avoid looking at his hand, worrying about her choice of words, "With the way William was running, I think he will sleep easier tonight."

"Thank God for that," he rumbled, and Charlotte laughed, knowing that he was trying to joke with her, and she much preferred that to how he had been acting that morning.

They lay there in silence, Charlotte closing her eyes for the first time since waking up, and let the sound of her husband's even breathing lull her into a light sleep. She tried to think, at first, about her past, what she could remember, what she needed to know to continue life here.

But then a thought occurred to her: what did it matter?

Whether it was the exhaustion or the confusion or just her base self, Charlotte didn't know, but once the question was posed, she found that she didn't have any response good enough to warrant her continuing to think, at least not in that moment; what good would it do for her to remember the past when all she had was the present, and she could learn as she lived.

She didn't need to worry herself to death. She needed to rest.

As she sank further and further to sleep, she toyed with the idea that, perhaps, none of this was real. That this was just a strange detour before she finally reached wherever she would go, that she was, in fact, on her way to her eternal sleep with whatever came after. That this life wasn't what she thought it was.

She didn't get to decide which truth she would have preferred.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

( 06.27.18 ; 03.10.21 )

The amount of research I had to do for this chapter is ridiculous, like I didn't even really go into specifics, but I was so afraid to have her like breathe without making sure that that was a thing working class people did back in the late 19th century. I honestly gave up halfway through and I'm just doing the best I can (and if you think I'm gonna try to be as period accurate as possible in simple dialogue, you overestimate the time I have, but I'm gonna try my best)

I'm not super proud of this chapter, but it's fine, we just need to keep chugging along (let's be real, we all just wanna get to Bucky)

Also, the title sucks, but the idea was that like the first chapter is "let go" and this one is "not just yet" because she's not dead yet, you know? Anyways!

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!