Insignificant Man

The air of 1920s New York City crackled with a vibrant energy. John, clad in a period-appropriate suit that felt stiff and unfamiliar, watched the throng on the sidewalk, his handheld supercomputer humming discreetly in his pocket. This was it, a two-hour trial run. He had to observe, not interfere. The fate of time itself, he constantly reminded himself, rested on his restraint.

Suddenly, a Pierce-Arrow roadster, its engine roaring like a wounded beast, careened onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians. Instinct took over. He lunged, shoving a pregnant woman out of the car's path. She stumbled, but was safe. A wave of relief washed over him, quickly followed by a chilling dread. A disheveled man, a street bum who had also been moving to save the woman, was struck full-on by the car. He crumpled to the ground.

John, his heart hammering against his ribs, immediately scanned the woman. The computer flashed green: "Temporal Integrity Confirmed. No Alterations Observed. Pregnancy Progressing as Scheduled." The baby, the woman – they were supposed to be safe. A minuscule weight lifted from his shoulders.

Then, he scanned the bum. The screen blazed red: "Temporal Deviation Detected." The man, according to the historical data, should have been injured, not killed, and lived another 61 years. John delved deeper, running a full diagnostic scan. The man's life was a quiet eddy in the stream of history. Never married, no children, never influencing anyone of significance. He was, in essence, a temporal nonentity.

A flicker of hope ignited within John. Had the universe corrected itself? Perhaps the alteration, while technically a deviation, was insignificant enough to not trigger a catastrophic paradox. He decided on a thorough comparison analysis back in the lab.

His two hours were up. He pressed the return sequence. The world dissolved into a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors. He braced himself, expecting to materialize back in his pristine lab.

He didn't.

Instead, he opened his eyes to a scene of utter devastation. Twisted metal skeletons clawed at a smoke-choked sky. The air tasted of ash and decay. Buildings lay in ruins, monuments reduced to rubble. This wasn’t his lab. This wasn't Earth as he knew it. This was a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Panic seized him. He was trapped, with no time machine to fix what he'd broken. The only thing he had was the handheld device. Days turned into weeks as he scavenged for food and shelter, his mind working tirelessly. Finally, he realized the device could send him back, but only to the exact temporal coordinates from which he initiated the return sequence – the moment he was about to leave 1929.

He punched in the command. The world spun again.

He was back in 1929, standing on the same sidewalk, the echoes of the accident still ringing in his ears. His only chance to fix this was to assume the bums identity

and somehow reset the timeline. He had to embrace the grime and destitution of the street bum. He had to become him, live his insignificant life, and hope the universe corrected itself.

Weeks later, he lay in a hospital bed, broken and barely clinging to life. The accident had taken its toll, but the doctors were fighting to save him. The hospital, overwhelmed, relied on anyone with medical knowledge, and a young, tired intern worked tirelessly on him, stitching and bandaging, pulling him back from the brink.

A desperate idea formed in John's mind. He scanned the intern, his fingers trembling on the device. The information flooded his screen: Dr. Arthur Klein, outstanding surgeon, credited with saving thousands of lives and pioneering revolutionary medical techniques. Earlier that day Dr. Klein had handed in his notice. He was burnt out, questioning his career path. John was the catalyst that changed his mind.

John mustered his strength, his voice a raspy whisper. "Thank you... Doctor..."

He tried again to return to his own time. For a fleeting moment, he stood in his lab, the familiar hum of the time machine a sweet melody in his ears. But then, with a wrenching pull, he was yanked back to the grimy hospital bed in 1929.

He was trapped. The universe wouldn't let him go. He was condemned to live the life of the street bum, a penance for his arrogance, for believing he could tamper with time and escape the consequences.

For 61 years, John lived the life of the insignificant man he had inadvertently erased. He faded into the background, a shadow in a world that reeled on toward an unknown future. He served his sentence.