July, 2000.
London's summer was like a teenager—moody and unpredictable.
The morning might be full of sunshine, the afternoon could suddenly pour with rain, and by evening the skies would clear again. Once that mischievous weather showed up, the temperature swung wildly, and the streets filled with every kind of attire.
Short sleeves and shorts declared summer; trench coats and umbrellas spoke of spring or autumn. But the most striking of all were the sweaters mixed in—reminding people that winter hadn't truly gone away, or perhaps warning them that it would inevitably come again.
"No wonder Sherlock Holmes is always in a trench coat and scarf in the TV series."
"I thought it was just about style and elegance, but turns out it's actually cold."
Rain had just stopped.
On the street, Isabella glanced around, feeling a pang of emotion. Seeing such clear divisions between spring, summer, autumn, and winter made her think of home.
Because the truth was—she didn't belong to this time.
Just two weeks ago, she had been living in 2025, a citizen of a great Eastern nation. But then, after closing her eyes and opening them again, she found herself in Great Britain at the dawn of the new century. To make it even stranger, she was now a ten-year-old girl.
"Isa?"
"Isa!"
"Oh my God, there you are!"
A shout rang out behind her. A girl ran up, golden hair bouncing like a waterfall with every step. Her pale face flushed from the sprint, her simple dress couldn't hide her youthful beauty, and her emerald eyes were filled with worry.
"Why did you run off? Didn't I tell you to wait for me in the car? And what's that newspaper tucked at your waist?"
"I just felt stuffy in the car, so I came out for some air."
As Isabella spoke, she quickly shoved the folded newspaper into the pocket of her jeans.
Her companion didn't notice. "Air? Couldn't you just wait for me? I was only in the bathroom! Mom told me to keep an eye on you before she left, and I promised her I would. If you got lost, how would I explain it to her?"
"Oh, my dear sister, how could I possibly get lost? Sure, London isn't the safest place, but this is the West End. If someone could get lost here, then there wouldn't be a safe place in the whole city!"
"Isa, you—ugh, forget it. Come on, back to the car!"
Katherine couldn't win an argument with Isabella. But fists were another matter.
Three years older, she simply grabbed Isabella's wrist and gave a tug. The little girl practically went flying with a whoosh.
Isabella had no choice but to shuffle her feet and follow, dragged along by her sister's strength.
The streets of London's West End were lined with buildings from the Victorian and Edwardian eras.
The Victorians loved bay windows—frames adorned with carved designs, stained glass pieced together into mosaics that sparkled when the sun hit them.
The Edwardians favored sash windows, sliding frames with large panes of glass, the essence of early minimalism.
Isabella hadn't gone far. Barely half a minute of brisk walking down the gently curving streets brought them to a tall white building, five stories high—the place where the sisters had been separated.
On the side of the building hung a yellow banner with a lion's head above bold letters:
The Lion King.
On the front, above six stately columns, the building's name was carved:
Lyceum Theatre.
"Is Mom out yet?" Isabella asked.
"No."
"So she doesn't know what just happened?"
"What are you getting at?"
Katherine frowned, shooting her sister a sharp look.
Smiling, Isabella opened the back door of the black Mercedes parked nearby. "Katherine, you don't really want Mom worrying about such trivial things, do you?"
"Oh, so you mean I should just beat you up myself instead of telling her?"
Katherine arched her brows and raised a fist. She knew exactly what Isabella was up to—and wasn't falling for it.
"Alright, fine. Please, Katherine, don't tell Mom, okay?" Isabella wilted, putting on her best pitiful face.
"Then are you going to listen to me from now on?" Katherine pressed.
"Deal?" Isabella grinned.
"Get in the car!" Katherine barked, pointing inside.
"Hehe…" Isabella slipped into the backseat.
Katherine, however, stayed outside, slamming the door behind her with more force than necessary.
Her attitude wasn't the kindest, but that only proved she had no intention of tattling.
And Isabella was the same—neither of them wanted to worry the only family they had left.
Because truth be told, their household wasn't very big.
There were only three of them: their mother, Vivian Carlson; Katherine Haywood; and Isabella Haywood.
As for their father…
He was lying in Highgate Cemetery, in the northern suburbs of London.
Eric Haywood had been the English version of a small-town prodigy. He didn't make it into one of the elite secondary schools, but his grades were strong enough to earn him a place at UCL. For graduate studies, he leapt to Cambridge. That academic rise landed him a position at Barclays. By the age of thirty, with his intelligence and remarkable people skills, he was already an executive in the private banking division, serving clients worth hundreds of millions.
If he had kept his head down, Eric might have become head of Barclays' UK division before forty, maybe even global president of the private banking arm by fifty. But in finance, who doesn't want fast money?
Who can resist the temptation of earning in a single year what others couldn't in a lifetime?
So Eric began investing on the side.
At first he was cautious, aiming for steady growth. But after betting correctly on the Black Wednesday crisis in '92, the peso collapse in '94, and shorting the Thai baht in '97, his appetite grew.
He left the safety of the bank and went all in, convinced the internet was the next great wave. With a single leap, he aimed to achieve in one generation what others might take five to build.
And then, in March 2000—everything collapsed.
Eric jumped from Tower Bridge.
Ah… still too immature. After so many years of investing, he never grasped the true nature of it.The charts of the financial markets aren't treasure maps—they're precision instruments designed to harvest the greedy.And the ones capital targets most are those daring to climb the ladder.
Even Warren Buffett looks like a rookie compared to the stock-market wizards on Capitol Hill. And those so-called wizards? When the American sun rises, they have to stand and applaud too. If you can't control the game, don't use leverage. What in this world is worth gambling your life on?"
Isabella sighed to herself.
If her late father were still alive, she'd be a wealthy heiress right now.
Because in her memories, when he went all-in on the internet boom, he put up over fifty million pounds in cash.
In the year 2000!Fifty million pounds in cash!Enough for her to spend a lifetime without ever worrying about money.
To put it bluntly—she could have just coasted through life.
But now?
Snap—
Gone.
All of it, gone.
"Oh, Keisha, Isa—you really are Mommy's sweet girls!"
"Thank you for keeping an eye on the car for me. Later, when we're home, I'll buy you both some treats."
"How about Patisserie Valerie?"
"Keisha, I'll get you your favorite strawberry cake. Isa, would you like a slice of raspberry tart today?"
Her wistful thoughts were cut short by a cheerful voice descending from above.
A slim woman in her mid-thirties, though she looked no older than her twenties, appeared before them. Beautiful features, graceful figure—it was their mother, Vivian.
She bent slightly to hug Katherine, planting a kiss on her cheek, then leaned over the car window and winked at Isabella. That smile, equal parts joy and relief, said everything.
"Oh, Mom, I love PV's raspberry tart, thank you," Isabella blurted out before her sister had the chance to speak.
Katherine shot her a glare, but let the earlier quarrel go. She hugged her mother back, accepting the promised reward.
"Mom, I love strawberry cake too. So… is this a celebration?"
"Uh… something like that." Vivian's smile froze for an instant under her daughter's hopeful eyes. Then she smoothed it over, glancing back at her eldest. "A celebration for helping me watch the car."
"What? But the theatre—"
Katherine's eyes flickered.
"We'll talk about what happened at the theatre when we get home, alright?"
Vivian's smile brightened even more. "Some things aren't meant to be discussed outside, sweetheart."
"O…kay, I understand, Mom…"
Katherine didn't push further. Vivian opened the driver's door, checked that both girls had buckled their seat belts, and slid into the front seat.
The engine roared to life, the scenery on both sides retreating in a blur. In the rearview mirror, the Lyceum Theatre—the West End's most famous stage—grew smaller and smaller until it vanished.
Vivian had been born in 1965. She was thirty-five now.
At just ten years old, she had first appeared on stage in the West End. By fourteen, she was already playing Juliet in Romeo and Juliet—the lead role in the A cast. As she grew older and Juliet no longer suited her, she wasn't abandoned by the stage. Instead, she moved into Cats, performing for two years straight.
At the height of her career, Vivian was a household name across the West End.
And then, at twenty-one, she chose to retire—because she fell in love and got married.
When Eric pursued her, he was already worth millions, and there was no need for Vivian to remain in the public eye. After the wedding, she devoted herself to being a wife and mother. Fourteen peaceful years passed in comfort.
She thought her life would stay that way. But no one could have predicted that one reckless gamble by her husband would turn their world upside down.
When the news of his death came, Vivian had even considered ending it all herself.
But with two young daughters and no family nearby, what choice did she really have?
She had to keep going.
And with their financial foundation gone, and no degree to her name, the only skill she could fall back on was acting.
In her mind, though she had been away from the stage for over a decade, her past reputation would surely help. She didn't need starring roles—just a place back in the theatre. That would be enough.
Everything else could wait.
But then…
"Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven…Would it be the same, if I saw you in heaven…I must be strong, and carry on…'Cause I know I don't belong… here in heaven…"
Stopped at a light, Vivian absentmindedly switched on the car radio.
The voice of Eric Clapton filled the car.
It was Tears in Heaven.
The sudden wave of sorrow caught her off guard. For a few seconds she froze, lips pressed tight. Her hands clenched harder on the steering wheel.
Notes:
Eric Clapton, British musician, winner of 18 Grammy Awards.
Tears in Heaven was released in 1992, written after Clapton lost his son. It later came to symbolize the living's remembrance of the dead.