Jack stood under the steaming shower, letting the hot water cascade down his back. He tilted his head back, squinting against the droplets, and reached for his bottle of shampoo. It was the same brand he’d used for years—cheap, mint-scented, and boasting the usual promises of revitalized hair and unmatched shine. He squeezed a dollop into his palm, lathered it into his hair, and watched as the foam turned white and thick.
As he rubbed, he squinted at the small, faint instructions on the back of the bottle. “Rinse and repeat two times,” he read out loud. “Two times?” He’d always just done it once. The idea seemed unnecessary—more shampoo, more money wasted—but he was curious.
He rinsed and repeated. Twice.
But as the second rinse came and went, Jack found himself lingering. The instructions didn’t specify what would happen if he did it a third time. Was it forbidden? Ridiculous, he knew, but his curiosity gnawed at him. What if the third time unlocked some secret level of cleanliness? Maybe he’d achieve shampoo nirvana. Maybe his hair would become untouchably soft.
Grinning, he squeezed out a third helping. The lather seemed thicker now, almost too much. It tingled on his scalp, more intense than before, and a strange warmth spread across the back of his neck. The scent of mint became sharper, biting into his nostrils. The water around his feet felt warmer too, almost as if the heat had been turned up.
The sensation grew uncomfortable, but Jack didn’t stop. He rubbed harder, eyes closed against the sting of mint. It was only when he tilted his head back to rinse the third time that he noticed the temperature spiking. The steam felt thicker, heavier. The water pouring down wasn’t just warm; it was almost scalding.
Jack opened his eyes, blinking through the haze. The white tile of his bathroom walls was gone, replaced by brick and mortar, damp and aged. The showerhead was missing, replaced by a simple iron spout, its water cascading like a small waterfall. His hands still tangled in his hair, he stumbled backward, slipping on a rough, uneven floor.
“What the—?”
He stared, heart pounding. The modern bathroom had vanished, replaced by a dim, narrow room. The air smelled of old stone and wood smoke, and through the fog, he saw a small, flickering torch mounted on a nearby wall. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the transformation.
It wasn’t just the room. His own body felt different—his skin gritty and cold, the shower’s heat no longer warming him. He shivered, stepping back until he felt the rough stone wall press against his bare back.
Outside, he heard the distant clatter of hooves and the murmur of voices. They weren’t the familiar sounds of passing cars or neighbors chatting. They were clipped, formal, almost distant, like echoes from a period drama. Jack, barefoot and dripping wet, crept to the doorway and peeked out.
He was in a narrow alleyway. The cobblestones glistened with rain. A horse-drawn carriage rumbled by, its wheels splashing muddy water onto the curb. Men in long coats and tricorne hats walked past, oblivious to his presence.
Jack’s breath caught. “No way,” he whispered. He wasn’t in his apartment. He wasn’t even in the same century.
He ducked back into the small room, heart pounding. The shampoo—three times. Somehow, it had acted like a trigger. A portal. His eyes darted to the iron spout, still running water that felt cold and real. He needed to figure out how to get back, but he couldn’t just jump under the water again and hope. What if it took him further back?
Jack leaned against the wall, rubbing his head. Maybe the answer was simple: reverse the process. Shampoo, rinse—three times. But would the water stay long enough for him to try again, or would he be stuck here, two centuries from home?
He had no choice but to find out.