Ellie's Journal
Do you believe that miracles exist in this world? I do, although only a handful of people ever truly encounter such wonders. If I were granted the chance to make a single wish—one that would truly come true—I think many would choose to turn back time, to undo mistakes from their past.
On that day, perhaps I would have taken the train to visit my mother in Paris for the weekend.
On that day, perhaps I would not have rushed out of the house so recklessly.
On that day, perhaps I would not have walked away from him.
Every one of us, at some point, has entertained the thought: "If only I hadn't…"
That ache of regret, the desperate wish to undo what cannot be undone—these are burdens every soul must bear. And so, to ease that pain, we pray with all our hearts to the powers we revere, hoping destiny might lead us to some release, some way to keep the heart from breaking more than it already has.
The story I am about to tell is one of miracles. Or, to put it another way, it is something so extraordinary that it defies all logic. I myself cannot explain how it came to pass, but I shall try my best to make it clear. The astonishing truth is that I came back to life after a car accident. Yes, it may sound utterly fanciful, but it did happen—just as I say. And there was something even more miraculous than mere resurrection: I was given the chance to witness things humanity has always believed in but never truly seen. But I will save that for later.
Allow me to introduce myself first.
Before the day that changed my fate, my name was Eleanor Hastings—or Ellie, as I'm often called. I was just an ordinary young woman, with what might be called rather dull pastimes. Most of my days were spent immersed in research. Though I'd had more than a few suitors, for some reason, no one ever seemed to touch my heart. It was as if my heart had been bound by some unseen promise, waiting to meet a destined soul. So, I chose to remain single and dedicated myself solely to my work.
I am an only child. I grew up with just my mother, as my father died in an accident when I was very young. Our family might have been small, but it was all the warmth I needed.
I was born in Bath, England, on 25 October 1998. I am twenty-six, currently studying for my master's degree in Western History at the University of Cambridge.
At that point in time, I was being offered an opportunity I had longed for all my life. On the night of 18 June 2025, the eve before fate would change everything, I was working diligently on a new research report about the reign of King Henry VIII and the shifting powers of the Catholic Church in England. It was then that I received an email from The Times, that venerable and storied newspaper, inviting me to write a commentary on life under the Hanoverian dynasty, to be published the following month.
I had always dreamed that the name Eleanor Hastings would one day be remembered as a respected scholar. My journey towards becoming a historian—or perhaps an archaeologist—began in childhood. My mother, Mila Hastings, gave me a book for my eleventh birthday: a compendium of the medieval history of Europe. I remember that day so well. She baked my favourite birthday cake, her signature recipe—flourless, made with only cheese, eggs, sugar, and fresh raspberries. That memory is something I shall always cherish.
I remember reading that book endlessly, able to recall every detail. This interest was planted deep within my heart. I was always excited by the lives of people in the past—an age untouched by technology, when the rawness of the human spirit ruled the world, when fanaticism in religion and ideology held sway, and the codes of dress and manners were so elaborate, social hierarchies complex. Wars were often the chosen tools of those in power. These became my passion, an obsession I could never escape.
But before I let myself get too lost in those memories, let me return to that same fateful evening. Miss Caitlin Johnson, a young editor in her early thirties, sent me another personal email inviting me to dinner in London the very next day. She had reserved a table at "Kin", a Thai restaurant at 58 Brewer Street, Marylebone, for seven o'clock sharp, along with her personal assistant, to discuss the finer details of the commission.
She represented The Times, and we had already come to know each other through my personal blog, which I had set up a couple of years prior to publish research notes. Over time, it attracted over twenty thousand readers, and Caitlin became one of them. She had first reached out via the contact email listed on my profile, inviting me to submit an article for consideration. I agreed, and she put my work forward until it was finally accepted for publication—even though I was still only a student. It was a small success, but one I'd never dreamed would come so soon.
We had already spoken by video call before she arranged to meet in person. I promptly booked a room at a well-known hotel in Marylebone, not far from the restaurant, planning to stay there that same night, and because I also wanted to visit several museums in the city during the day.
The Landmark London Hotel is a venerable building, originally constructed as a railway station in 1899. Later, it was converted into the headquarters of Military Intelligence Section 19 (MI9), which was responsible for investigations and helping refugees escape from concentration camps during the First World War. It would become a hotel again, changing hands several times, and is now owned by a prominent Thai conglomerate. And there you have it—my love of history borders on obsession. Even the hotels I choose must have a story worth uncovering.
Carried away by excitement, I quickly packed a small bag for a three-day stay, tossed it into the car, and set off at once.