We were holed up in the library that lunchtime, seeking sanctuary in the warm embrace of books, the literary equivalent of a duvet. After enduring the twin horrors of double Maths followed by PE, we were all emotionally and physically wrecked—except for Mai, who, suspiciously, seemed to thrive in what the rest of us considered a government-approved torture chamber masquerading as a gym. Skinner and Hadleigh had clearly missed their calling as dungeon masters.

Alison, Steve, and I hadn’t appreciated any of it. From the wall bars (which seemed like props from a medieval prison) to the climbing ropes (designed, no doubt, by sadistic mountaineers), it had been a continuous sequence of humiliations. Honestly, who climbs those things? Monkeys? Navy SEALs? Not me. I’m convinced the teachers took unholy pleasure in our suffering.

That’s when Mai found the photo.

She was speed-browsing the local newspaper archives like she was training for a competitive reading league. Somehow, she managed to absorb information at warp speed—a power we’d often joked was her actual mutant ability.

“Hey, check this out,” she said suddenly.

“Just describe it. My legs don’t work anymore,” Steve mumbled from behind his magazine, which may or may not have been upside down.

Sighing with the weight of the world—or at least her friends—on my shoulders, I dragged myself over to where Mai was sitting.

“It’s from the Greybridge Herald, dated exactly one hundred years ago,” she explained. “It’s about what Greybridge might be like in the future. You know, the usual sci-fi fluff—flying cars, moon vacations—but look at the photo underneath.”

I squinted. It was a grainy, black-and-white image of what looked like a summer fair opening. A bunch of people in period clothes were smiling awkwardly at the camera.

“Okay…?” I said, confused.

“The man on the left,” Mai pressed.

“He looks like old Scragend,” I said, naming our perpetually grumpy history teacher.

“Exactly!”

“So? Maybe it's a distant relative. Everyone has at least one ancestor who looks like they stepped out of a sepia photo.”

Mai was not convinced.

“No, look closer—the nose. See that wart? Same one. Same spot.”

“That’s… weird,” I admitted.

“It’s more than weird. The resemblance is uncanny. Identical face. Even the same tragic hairstyle.”

I shrugged. “Still could be a relative. No caption, right?”

“None,” she said. “But maybe there’s more. Let me do a reverse image search.”

She leaned in, squinting at the screen like it owed her money. Whenever Mai got serious, she squinted so hard I half expected her to shoot lasers. I’m not saying she’s a robot, but during finals week, I swear I could smell burning circuitry.

“Can you hurry it up?” Steve groaned. “If we’re late for Miss Francis again, we’ll be in detention until retirement.”

“I’m going as fast as the Wi-Fi allows,” Mai snapped, her death glare sharp enough to pierce armor.

A moment later, the screen lit up with a grid of images.

“There,” she said, pointing. “Same guy appears over and over—1899, 1924, 1962, even last year.”

“Wait, what?” Ali leaned in. “Any names listed?”

“The 1899 one calls him ‘The Right Honourable Sydney Scragly’. What’s our Mr. Scragly’s first name again?”

“Thomas,” Steve said. “So… ancestor?”

“Maybe. But check this out—1924 says William Scragly, 1964 it’s Arthur Scragly.”

She pulled up the 1962 photo—it was the clearest of the bunch. Same man. Same wart. Same stern, mildly disappointed glare. It was like looking at our Scragly's twin—or time-clone.

“Wait,” Steve said. “Zoom in on his wrist.”

“It’s just a watch,” Mai said.

“Just zoom in.”

She did. The photo was grainy, but you could make out the shape. Steve practically jumped out of his seat.

“That’s a smartwatch. Apple’s smartwatch. Came out last year. That’s the same one Scragend—sorry, Mr. Scragly—wears to school!”

“You sure?” Mai asked, narrowing her eyes.

“I’d bet my entire snack stash. That’s the Series 9. I have the same one. Look!” He held out his wrist for comparison, like a proud collector unveiling a rare artifact.

Mai stared. “But… that’s not logical. That photos from 1962.”

“And yet—there it is,” Steve grinned.

“So, either someone’s doing some very elaborate Photoshop… or…”

“Or Mr. Scragly is a time traveller,” Steve said, doing his best sci-fi narrator voice.

Mai opened her mouth to argue but stopped.

We all stared at each other. Silence.

Then the bell rang, shattering the moment like a budget horror movie jump scare.

“Ugh, we’re going to be late for Miss Francis. Again,” Ali groaned. “Guess we’ll have to solve the time-travelling history teacher mystery later.”

From a writing prompt to write a story around a famous saying. Part of a bigger story.