The Forgotten Checkbook

Harold Whitaker had lived in the same house for nearly seventy years. The walls had seen the rise and fall of his ambitions, the echo of laughter and sorrow, and the quiet passing of time. He had never been one for change, which is why he still banked with the same institution he had since he was eighteen.

It was on an idle Tuesday afternoon, while rummaging through an old drawer for a misplaced screwdriver, that he found it—the checkbook. Its leather cover was faded and cracked, but the initials "H.W." were still embossed on the front in gold. He flipped through it absentmindedly, marveling at the crisp, unused checks interspersed with the ghostly imprints of carbon copies from decades past. The last check written had been dated July 12, 1973.

“Fifty years,” Harold muttered to himself, shaking his head. He had been here, in this very house, back when that check was written. He smiled as memories bubbled up—his wife Margaret bustling in the kitchen, the radio humming some long-forgotten tune, the scent of her lavender perfume lingering in the air.

Still, he thought little of it. It was just an old checkbook. Nothing more.

But then, a week later, Harold found himself unable to locate his current checkbook. Bills needed paying, and rather than upend the house, he simply retrieved the old one from the drawer.

He sat at the kitchen table, his hand moving with mechanical precision. Date, amount, signature—he had done this a thousand times before. Except this time, when he wrote the date, his mind absentmindedly drifted. Instead of 2025, his hand scrawled 1973.

Harold didn’t notice. He just signed his name at the bottom, pressing the ink deep into the fibers of the paper.

The moment his pen lifted, a rush of wind filled the room, despite the windows being shut. The walls shimmered, colors running like wet paint. The overhead light flickered and dimmed, bathing everything in a sepia glow.

Then, suddenly—stillness.

Harold blinked.

His hands were different. Less veined. Less weathered. His knuckles didn’t ache. The pen in his grip was heavier, the old Parker pen he had long since lost.

He looked around.

The house was… the same. But not the same. The appliances gleamed in that 1970s shade of avocado green. The rotary phone sat in its cradle, and beside it, a fresh newspaper lay open—July 12, 1973.

His breath caught.

The chair beneath him, the table, the hum of an old refrigerator—everything was exactly as it had been. His heart pounded as he stumbled to his feet. He crossed to the hallway mirror and stared at his reflection.

A younger man looked back.

His hair was dark, his face unlined. He touched his cheek in disbelief. This was no dream. This was real.

Then he heard it.

A voice from the kitchen. A voice he had not heard in decades.

“Harry? Did you remember to mail the gas bill?”

His heart clenched.

Margaret.

His Margaret.

His legs nearly gave out beneath him.

She stepped into view, wearing a yellow dress with tiny daisies along the hem. She looked just as she had—no, was—in 1973. Her auburn hair was pinned up the way she always did when she cooked. Her smile was radiant, her eyes warm.

Harold had never believed in miracles. But now, standing in the past, in the home that had not yet become a place of solitude, he wasn’t sure what else to call it.

Margaret frowned slightly at his silence. “Harry? You alright?”

Harold swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. He had dreamed of this moment for years, but now that it was real, he was terrified to break it.

“I—uh, yeah,” he finally managed, forcing a chuckle. “Just... got lost in thought.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “You always do that when you’re working on bills. Come on, dinner’s almost ready. Roast chicken and potatoes, your favorite.”

Roast chicken. He could already smell it now, the scent tugging at something deep inside him. The world felt impossibly vivid—warmer, richer than his memories ever were.

Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward, watching her move about the kitchen with practiced ease. The radio was playing softly in the background—Bobby Goldsboro’s Summer (The First Time) drifting through the air. He hadn’t heard that song in years.

Was this really happening?

He glanced at the table where the check still lay, fresh ink gleaming. If writing it had brought him here... what if undoing it sent him back?

His fingers twitched.

Did he want to go back?

His mind reeled with the possibilities. He could live his life again, make different choices, hold onto moments he had once let slip through his fingers. But wasn’t that the very temptation that led men to ruin? What if he changed something that he wasn’t supposed to? What if—

“Harry?”

He turned, startled. Margaret was looking at him, brow furrowed. “You’re acting strange tonight. Is something wrong?”

His throat tightened.

How could he tell her? How could he possibly explain that he had already lived this life once before, that he knew what was coming? That he knew, in just seven years, she would be gone?

That thought nearly crushed him.

No. He wouldn’t waste this. However long this lasted, however real or illusory it was, he wouldn’t waste one second.

Harold took a deep breath and smiled.

“No, sweetheart,” he said, voice steadier now. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything is... perfect.”

Margaret laughed softly, shaking her head as she returned to the stove. “Well, good. Now set the table, would you?”

He did. With the care of a man handling something impossibly precious.

They ate together, and every bite, every word exchanged, felt like something sacred. He memorized the way she spoke, the way her lips curved when she smiled, the way her fingers drummed absently against the table when she was thinking.

For the first time in years, Harold felt whole.

Hours passed, and the evening drifted into night. Margaret eventually yawned, stretched, and rose from the table. “I think I’ll turn in,” she said, touching his shoulder. “You coming?”

Harold hesitated.

He knew—somehow—that if he went to sleep, he might wake up back in his time. And though he wanted nothing more than to lay beside her again, to feel the warmth of her presence, a desperate part of him wanted to stay awake forever.

“Not yet,” he said. “I’ll be up in a little while.”

She kissed his forehead and whispered, “Don’t stay up too late.”

And then she was gone, disappearing down the hallway, just like she had done a thousand times before.

Harold sat at the table, the checkbook still open in front of him. His fingers hovered over it.

One signature had brought him here.

Would another send him back?

For a long time, he just sat there, watching the ink glisten in the dim light.

Outside, the world was quiet. Timeless.

And for the first time in fifty years, Harold Whitaker didn’t feel alone.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.