Winter of 1939

The river water was grayish-brown and icy cold, like the heavy iron artifacts between the pages of a history book.

Marc Loren, or more accurately, the other soul that now occupied this young body, slowly opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was the hard touch of sand and gravel penetrating his wool sweater.

The Seine flowed beneath him, painting the Parisian sky in November 1939 a broken, desolate gray.

"Sir, are you alright?"

The voice came from above, carrying the characteristic concern and suspicion of a Parisian policeman, and a pair of warm, large hands helped him up.

"Thank you," Loran said, patting her clothes as she realized that her attire looked completely unfamiliar.

Then, a splitting headache made him bend over, the two memories intertwined, and gray-black fragments kept flashing in his mind.

One memory comes from a middle-aged man casually browsing through World War II archives. The other belongs to Marc Lorrain, 26 years old, an assistant professor in the history department at Paris 8 University, unmarried, whose father distinguished himself in the Battle of Verdun and whose mother tragically passed away from pneumonia.

"I fell?" Lorraine heard himself say incredulously in French, his voice hoarse, his black coat stained with some river moss.

Beneath the brim of the policeman's hat was a young face with some freckles. He loosened his grip and comforted him, "You're lying on the riverbank like a dead... well, like a thinker, but the river water can freeze you to death this time of year."

Lorraine swallowed hard and unconsciously touched his face. Winter, a chilling season, and without this policeman, he might have frozen to death here.

His current attire and the surrounding scenery left him somewhat bewildered. After a brief moment of thought, Loran asked, "What's the date today?"

"November 3rd, Friday." The policeman looked at him suspiciously, then asked with concern, "Do you need to go to the hospital, sir?"

Loran didn't get the answer he wanted, so he asked again, "Specifically, the year."

"1939," the policeman replied calmly.

Loran shuddered.

He actually arrived in France on November 3, 1939, a country on the verge of collapse.

Two months had passed since Germany's blitzkrieg against Poland, and nearly two months since Britain and France formally declared war on Germany, but there was almost no gunfire on the Western Front. They called it a "strange war." French troops were drinking wine and waiting behind the Maginot Line, while German troops were doing the same thing behind the Siegfried Line.

There were exactly 5 days left until May 10, 1940, the day the German army actually invaded France.

By then, France would have perished in a mere forty-one days.

Loran took a deep breath; the cold air stung his lungs.

"Excuse me, do you need to be taken to the hospital?"

"No, thank you." Lorraine waved her hand, her legs weak. "I'm just a little dizzy. I've been working too late lately, I'm sorry to have troubled you."

The policeman smiled and adjusted his hat brim; he had clearly seen far too many Parisian intellectuals tormented by the anxieties of war.

He pointed to the bridge not far away and said, "There's a café over there on the Saint-Michel Bridge; hot coffee there is more comforting than a hospital."

Lorraine thanked him and walked toward the bridge, each step heavy. When he learned that he had arrived in France at this time, his first thought was to leave immediately, but he quickly dismissed the idea.

Where could he go? Ninety percent of Europe had fallen to the German army's steel torrent. Unless he went to Britain or America, but his savings simply wouldn't allow him to do so.

The streetlights were covered with posters that read "Silence is strength," a French government propaganda message reminding citizens not to leak military information. However, the Maginot Line was a well-known strategic line, and the enemy had long known it inside and out.

Lorraine stopped in front of another poster, a recruitment poster, depicting a French soldier embracing his weeping wife against a backdrop of a burning village.

The war was really happening, and he was in the middle of it.

The whole world is like him; no one can escape it.

When he arrived at the coffee shop, he saw his reflection in the glass window: a tall, thin young man with slightly disheveled dark brown hair, a pale face, a straight nose, and a look of panic and clarity in his eyes that seemed incongruous with his appearance.

He silently pushed open the door, and the bell rang.

A warm atmosphere wafted over, mingling with the scents of coffee, cigarettes, and damp wool. Soft jazz music played from the radio, but it was almost drowned out by the sounds of conversation. A few young people who looked like students were arguing in a corner, an old man was reading a newspaper alone, and two middle-aged men were talking in hushed tones, glancing at the door every now and then.

Everywhere I looked, there were faces with European features.

"Mr. Mark!" The owner behind the bar recognized him and asked with concern, "The usual?"

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Lefebvre," Lorraine nodded in response.

He sat down by the window, a seat he seemed to always occupy. Outside, Paris was lighting up its city, one lamp after another, displaying its splendor without reservation. The radiance meandered along the Seine, the city unaware that it only had six months left to live.

Lorraine was still seriously considering his plan to leave, but it was a momentous and extremely difficult matter. It would deplete all his savings, and more importantly, the situation in other countries was currently mired in the Great Depression, with living conditions being a cause for concern.

The coffee arrived, black, unsweetened, and genuinely bitter.

Loran felt in his pocket and pulled out a leather wallet, a set of keys, a metro token, and a memo folded twice:

4 PM: Discussing page 5 of the paper with Professor DuPont.

7 p.m.: Dinner at Charlotte's house. "Don't forget the wine."

Sunday: Mother's grave. "With flowers."

Memories were fully awakened at that moment. Charlotte Moreau, Lorraine's fiancée, an elementary school teacher with chestnut curly hair and a dimple on her left cheek when she smiled; they planned to get married next spring.

The memories of the past tug at Loran's heart. Even though he had never actually lived here, he could feel the original owner's affection for this land.

What would have happened if everything had followed the original trajectory? Would the original owner or oneself have struggled to survive in German-occupied Paris? Or joined the resistance? Or worse?

Loran rubbed his head and muttered to himself, "We can't get out. All the ships in the English Channel have been requisitioned by the military. Even if there were a ship we could take, getting a visa would be a problem."

The chatter in the café rose and fell, and Loran's thoughts became increasingly chaotic.

Lost in thought, Loran leaned against the table. A hard object pressed against his chest. Suddenly remembering something, he quickly rummaged through the inside pocket of his coat. His fingers touched a familiar shape, and he hurriedly pulled it out to examine it.

"No, that's impossible." Loran said in disbelief.

It was a smartphone, a very new model, with cracks on the edges of its black casing, undoubtedly a new phone he bought last week.

Loran held his breath and pressed the power button; the screen lit up.

Battery level: 3%. No signal. Time displayed: November 26, 2025. Then, below the date, a line of small print says "Searching for network."

Loran unlocked the screen, frowned. The icon arrangement style was indeed his, but there were obvious signs that someone else had used it.

In this timeline, who would use a smartphone?

Without much thought, Loran opened his photo album. As someone extremely interested in World War II, his phone naturally contained the information he needed.