Surya and Divya were on their fifth vacation together, but this one was unlike any other.
They weren’t flying to a beach or hiking through mountains. This time, they were traveling through centuries.
Ever since time tourism became mainstream, exploring the past had replaced tropical holidays. Surya and Divya usually visited the 19th or 20th century, sipping tea in Victorian London or watching jazz bloom in 1920s New Orleans. But this year, Divya wanted to go further back.
“The 15th century,” she said, eyes bright with excitement. “It’s the dawn of the Renaissance. Imagine seeing art and invention being born in real time.”
Surya wasn’t as thrilled. He preferred eras with electricity and proper plumbing. Still, he agreed. He booked their tickets with Chrono Trails, one of India’s most popular time-travel tour companies.
The first two days went as expected. Guided tours. Strict protocols. A mix of wonder and fatigue.
But on the third day, everything changed.
Divya lost her guidebook.
To anyone else, that might sound trivial. But time travel wasn’t just a luxury; it was a system bound by laws. The Indian government had built an entire ministry around it. Travelers were forbidden from interacting with locals beyond pre-approved dialogues. Bringing future objects into the past was tightly controlled. Losing anything in history, no matter how small, was a criminal offense.
Every night, Chrono Trails conducted item checks. That evening, when Divya couldn’t produce her guidebook, the staff went pale.
“Are you sure you had it after lunch?” one asked.
Divya nodded. “We were sitting by the lake in Strasbourg. I had it in my hand while taking photos. Then it was gone.”
A dozen people searched through the grass under the fading sunset. Tour coordinators combed every bench, every path, every inch of the lakeside. But the book had vanished.
For the company, this was a disaster. When they returned to the present, an official investigation would begin. If the book was found by anyone in the 15th century, it could alter history itself. Worse, Chrono Trails could lose its license.
That night, Surya lay awake, staring at the ceiling of their rented villa. He kept thinking about the absurdity of it all, how a simple vacation mistake might ripple across centuries.
The next morning, life in 15th-century Strasbourg carried on as usual. The market buzzed with chatter, horses clattered on cobblestone streets, and the lake shimmered under the sun.
A tall man walked along the water’s edge, deep in thought. His hands were stained with ink. He had been wrestling with an idea for months, searching for a way to make the written word faster, more accessible, and permanent.
Something glimmered near a tree.
He bent down and picked it up, a book with a smooth, metallic sheen. The cover sparkled under the light. The pages were crisp, the fonts clean, the illustrations vivid beyond imagination.
He turned the book over, studying its craftsmanship. No one in his time could have created such precision. Yet here it was, resting in his hands.
The man smiled slowly, a spark of possibility forming in his mind.
His name was Johannes Gutenberg.
And history had just been rewritten.