My Boss is a Secret Time Traveler
I know how this sounds. People tell me all the time that I have an overactive imagination or that I spend way too many hours binge-watching sci-fi shows on the weekend. But I am telling you, with absolute certainty, that my boss, Mr. Henderson, is a time traveler. It is not just a hunch anymore; it is my daily reality. Working as an office admin is supposed to be predictable, but my life has become anything but normal since I started at this firm. At first, I just thought Mr. Henderson was a bit of an oddball, maybe even a classic eccentric. He refuses to touch a computer. Not even for a quick email or a search. He carries a heavy, vintage fountain pen everywhere he goes, and he insists that I handle all the digital heavy lifting. He will dictate emails to me while pacing around his office, using slang that feels like it belongs in a jazz club from the 1920s. He calls our new filing software the bee's knees, and he insists on calling our one-hour lunch break our daily recess. It was charming at first, but then things started to get weird. The turning point happened on a day. Mr. Henderson had left for an early lunch, leaving his mahogany desk cluttered with papers. I walked in to drop off some reports and noticed a small, leather-bound notebook left open right next to his telephone. I did not mean to snoop, but the sketches on the page caught my eye. They were not meeting notes or financial projections. They were complex, dizzying mathematical equations paired with intricate hand-drawn diagrams of inventions that, as far as I know, do not exist yet. I saw blueprints for what looked like flying cars and structural designs for circular portals that seemed to fold space in on themselves. I flipped the page, my heart hammering against my ribs, and saw a list of dates. They were far off in the future—2055, 2100, 2150—each tagged with cryptic notes about something called temporal stabilization. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely see the ink. Just as I started to process what I was looking at, I heard the distinctive click-clack of his shoes on the hardwood hallway. He was back early. I fumbled, trying to slam the notebook shut, but I was too slow. Mr. Henderson walked through the door just as I was pushing the leather cover down. He didn't yell. He didn't even look angry. He just gave me this slow, knowing smile that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He stopped right in front of me, leaned in, and said, some things are better left unread, my dear. I didn't say a word. I just nodded, feeling like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Since that day, the dynamic has shifted. He has been extra nice to me, almost as if he is trying to apologize for the secret he is keeping, but I know he saw me. He knows I know. The weirdness has only escalated. I will hear him in his office talking to people, but when I walk in to hand him his coffee, he is completely alone. He talks about historical figures who died decades ago as if he just had coffee with them yesterday. He’ll mention a chat he had with a famous inventor or a disagreement he had with a political figure from the mid-twentieth century, and he says it with such casual tone that it is impossible to ignore. Sometimes, he just vanishes. I’ll see his car in the parking lot, his coat will be hanging on the rack, and his office door will be shut, but hours will pass and he will never come out. I’ve checked the side exit, the restrooms, the lobby—he is just gone. My friends back home just laugh at me when I try to bring it up. They think I am making it up to spice up my life. But how do you explain a man who never seems to age? He has looked the same for the three years I have been here, not a single gray hair or new wrinkle. And then there is his foresight. Last year, when the markets were spiraling and everyone was panicking, Mr. Henderson calmly told me to move all of our company assets into a very specific, obscure fund two days before the crash. He didn't check a news site. He didn't look at a chart. He just knew. We made a fortune, and the company was saved, while our competitors folded overnight. I do not ask questions anymore. I have stopped trying to find his secret room or figure out where he goes during those vanishing acts. I just do my work, keep his schedule organized, and stay as far away from his desk as humanly possible. This is the wildest job I have ever had, and it is a strange mix of terror and wonder. Part of me wants to know more, to see those portals and touch the future he comes from, but I am also terrified of the truth. Is it dangerous to work for a time traveler? Maybe. My life is unpredictable, my boss is an enigma, and I feel like I am standing on the edge of history every single day. But the pay is incredible, the benefits are solid, and the atmosphere is strangely calm compared to my last job. So, for now, I will stay. I will keep his secrets, type his 1920s-style emails, and wait until the day he finally disappears for good.