Free Time Agency by Aaron Frale Page A

more we would change history. If I only had enough information to give to my younger self to warn him about the events leading to the memory loss, maybe I could prevent my situation from happening to him. Or maybe the conversation I had with my younger self led to the event of my memory loss, to begin with. It’s possible that I started sticking my nose in business that I shouldn’t have and ended up here. Either way, thinking about all the iterations of time is mind numbing.
    There was a rustle from a room in the back. An old door was at the rear of the store near a shelf of fantasy novels. I heard a loud thump. Most people would probably leave during a moment like this, but I had to investigate. This was my only lead and more than likely the owner was just moving boxes around.
    “Hello,” I called out as I approached the door. There was no answer. I knocked. The bookstore was silent. My knock dissipated the happenings in the back room. I was about to knock again when it opened a crack. I was greeted with a gun.
    “Go away,” a panicked voice commanded from the other side. It sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.
    “I'm just here for information. I am unarmed.”
    “I really can't help you.” The voice was at the tip of my mind. I knew the person on the other side of the door, but I couldn't place them. Maybe they were in some memory bubbling up from the past.
    I really couldn't tell you how I knew what would happen next, but I sensed urgency in the voice. It was the crack in the voice of a person making an irrational decision, or maybe I experienced a similar event before. I couldn't have been sure how I knew the owner of the voice intended harm. I think I saw a tiny spot of blood on the sleeve. I kicked the door open and stepped to the side in the same motion. A gun went off. The door connected to the person behind it with a loud crack. A bullet burrowed a hole in a stack of books behind me.
    My body was fueled with terror. Rather than running down a narrow row of bookshelves where I would be an easy target, I charged through the door. I felt the door connect once again to the man recovering from the first blow. The back was an office and storage room. In a blur of adrenaline, I pushed him into a bookshelf. Books toppled off the bookshelf and rained down on us. The gun fired again. A large tome of collected fantasy novels landed on my opponent's head and stunned him. The backroom bookshelf was the metal warehouse type rather than the nice wooden bookshelves in the front of the store. I slammed his head into a jagged metal edge. It cut his brow and blood gushed out. The gun landed on the ground. I kicked him in the groin for good measure and brought the fantasy tome down on his head again. He lost consciousness.
    That's when I realized why I knew his voice. The person lying in the pile of books was the well-dressed man. He was covered in blood, but it didn't look like his own. That's when I realized there was another person in the room. A dead person. The body was sprawled out on the floor. There were several bullet wounds in the chest. I felt my face drain of all its color. The body looked exactly like the person I assaulted in the new bookstore. He must have been an identical twin. It couldn't have been a coincidence.
    I raced to the front of the store. A police car was parked out front. The officer must have heard the gunfire because he was ducked behind his door on the radio. I raced to the back of the store. The back office must have a way out. I considered getting the gun, but it was probably used to kill the bookseller. I considered the gun more of a liability than a tool. I heard more police arrive as I shut the door leading to the storeroom. Luckily, there was another door leading out to what I assumed would be a courtyard. I ran to the door and froze.
    Near the exit door was a beat-up wooden desk. It was old and ornate. There were lots of books littering the desk. Some were opened, and others