The verdant landscape opened before Mercedes like a child’s storybook. The view was breathtaking. She was panting hard from the hike.

Her research required her to travel around the world to investigate fluctuations in time. That was the intent, anyway. Mostly, she chased myths, rumors, or legends about temporal differences and their manifestations. Most of them involved people who had disappeared for years and then returned without aging.

A rumor of an old woman who lived in the crags of northern Scotland fueled her current excursion. Grandparents and great grandchildren shared stories about the woman that impossibly spanned over a century. Although scientifically skeptical, Mercedes was intoxicated with hope.

“Not far,” she said, as she forced her tired body to stand. She eyed the summit.

Tucked into a fold between a rock outcropping and a gently sloping valley was a stone house. A warm breath of smoke exhaled from the chimney. An old woman was standing on the cobblestone patio.

“A visitor?” said the old woman. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. Mrs. Carter?” Mercedes had her doubts. The woman before her couldn’t be more than 70 years old.

“Yes, that’s me. Please come in for tea.”

The house’s interior was spartan. Colored glass jars and vases, some with freshly cut flowers, decorated handmade wood furniture. A few photographs hung on the stone walls. Mrs. Carter gestured for Mercedes to sit at the table, then busied herself with preparing the tea.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Mrs. Carter asked.

Mercedes mentally reviewed her catalog of reasons. Lost hiker? Interest in architecture? An artist looking for inspiration? Describing her research always seemed to instigate tall tales and dead ends.

“It’s just so beautiful up here,” Mercedes said.

“I’m guessing there is more than beauty that brings you to my doorstep, lassie.” Mrs. Carter turned to face Mercedes, her eyes boring holes in Mercedes’ façade.

“Yes, well…” Mercedes said, taken off guard. “I’m researching strange phenomena related to the passing of time.”

“Ah, yes. Did the villagers send you up here?”

“They mentioned you’ve been here a long time.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Carter looked down at her hands with unfocused eyes. “Quite some time indeed.”

“Do you mind if I ask how old you are, Mrs. Carter?”

Mrs. Carter placed two cups and a pot of tea on the table. She lowered herself into a chair opposite Mercedes.

“I’m not quite sure how old I am. I’ve been here for many years.” She sighed. “Tell me about your research.”

“We call them time pockets.” Mercedes said. “We all think time is uniform, but it varies from place to place. Think about microclimate. Even though it’s 70 degrees, there are small depressions where it is colder and open plains where it is warmer. The temperature is just an average. The same is true for the passing of time.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Carter said, as if hearing a commonly known fact. “You can’t expect us to move at the same pace.”

A tiny chuckle crept through Mercedes’ lips. She liked Mrs. Carter.

“Time pockets or not,” Mrs. Carter said, “I think you’re here right on time.”

“Why is that?”

“I need you to help me with something. It’s time for me to go.”

“Go where?” Mercedes asked, confused.

“To get Mr. Carter.” Mrs. Carter pointed toward a faded photograph of a man.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Carter. I was under the impression that Mr. Carter had passed.”

“Not quite yet. Let’s go see.”

Mrs. Carter led Mercedes to the far end of a hallway and together they opened a door in the floor. The corroded hinges pierced the stillness with a prolonged wail. They descended the stairs slowly. The musty coolness of the cellar crawled over Mercedes’ skin like a tribe of ants.

Mrs. Carter’s flashlight revealed glimpses of stored goods until it found its target near the far wall of the cellar. Illuminated there was an old man laying on a cot. He emitted a deeply stretched snore that reminded Mercedes of a breathing exercise she had done in yoga class.

“Is that…?” Mercedes asked.

“Mr. Carter. I’ll give him a nudge.” Mrs. Carter sat on the edge of the cot and whispered to Mr. Carter. She rocked him gently with her hands. “He was diagnosed with cancer, so I stowed him away down here to slow things down a bit. He had very little time.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, some time ago.”

“Mrs. Carter, can you please try to give me an estimate of time?” Mercedes was getting exasperated.

“Maybe seven years ago. But he won’t feel anything more than a good afternoon nap.” Mr. Carter opened his eyes and smiled at his wife. She helped him sit up.

“Good heavens,” Mr. Carter said. “How long was I out?”

“A good while, honey,” Mrs. Carter answered. “I think we should go sit on the overlook and take in the scenery.”

“It’s time, then?”

Mrs. Carter nodded.

After brief introductions, Mercedes helped Mrs. Carter carry her husband up the stairs, through the house, and up the hill to a rock outcropping which overlooked the valley. The couple sat close together with Mr. Carter’s arm around Mrs. Carter’s back and her head on his shoulder.

Mercedes snuck back down the hill to give them privacy. She sat in an iron chair on the patio and looked up at the old couple.

Their skin got light and taut and their bodies shrunk. Mr. Carter’s head bent slightly and then his chin met his chest. Mrs. Carter’s body slowly disappeared into her husband’s. They continued to fade until nothing but their clothes shifted in the breeze.

Mercedes’ finger chased a tear down her cheek. She recovered her walking poles and made her way down the mountain. By the time she arrived back at the village, two years had passed.