The last thing you feel is the sterile chill of the chronometer, a cold shudder that travels up your spine. Then, a dizzying nausea twists your gut as the world dissolves into a kaleidoscope of screaming color. The scent hits you first, a thick, greasy perfume of exhaust and cheap cologne, replacing the clean air of your timeline. The blinding, pulsating colors recede, and you are standing on a city street, not in a sterile lab, but amidst a bustling crowd in 1950. The past is not a silent picture show, but a living, breathing reality, and you are a ghost in its vibrant, unfamiliar machine. You glance around, your heart pounding with a mixture of terror and exhilaration, wondering what comes next. As the dizziness subsided and the world swam back into focus, a shadow fell over you. A well-dressed man, not of this time, but of your own, stood before you. His clothes were of a quality and cut that a 1950s tailor could not replicate, and his eyes held a calm understanding. He pushed a crisp, brown paper bag into your hands. "Don't open that yet," he said, his voice low and firm, his accent the same as your own time. "Just go to the first diner you see." He gestured vaguely down the street, his hand disappearing in a flash of shimmering light. Before you could react, the man vanished, leaving you standing alone, clutching the bag. The diner was a beacon of familiar comfort in a sea of strange, 1950s uncertainty. A cheerful, red-jacketed waitress offered you a seat at the counter, her smile a welcome relief. The scent of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee filled the air, a familiar aroma in an unfamiliar world. As you sat down, you cautiously opened the paper bag, revealing its contents: a neatly folded pile of vintage clothes—a pair of simple trousers, a button-up shirt, and a sport coat—all looking slightly worn but perfectly suited to the time. Beneath the clothes, a small stack of bills, old-fashioned and faded, sat beside a slip of paper. The paper held a name, an address, and a key. The apartment was a small, one-bedroom place above a quiet grocery store, the slip of paper explained. A few dollars were taped to the key with a note: "Start here. Don't be afraid to adapt. Some of us are rooting for you." The paper vanished into dust as you read it, leaving no trace behind.
