Unlike the graffiti-ridden dark tunnels of today, City Hall Station had been an architectural marvel back when it was constructed in the early 1900s. With its ornate tiles and beautiful chandeliers, it reminded me of times gone by when everything, from going to the post office to visiting the theater, was a grand affair.

“It’s like stepping back in time,” Cara said, her voice filled with wonderment.

She reached out, touching the restored tiles that marked the name of the station. Watching her filled me with a sense of pride and accomplishment.

I’d done this. I’d put that smile on her face, that look of reverence in her eyes.

I never wanted it to end.

After a brief tour of the main tunnel, Kevin allowed us to venture up to the mezzanine section where several photos and historical artifacts had been set up for viewers to enjoy.

But it was the scenery around us that stole Cara’s attention.

“Can you imagine arriving here back then? I’d be dressed in fourteen different layers, probably sweating from the exhaustion of not being able to breathe properly from the strength of the corset around my waist, and you’d look so dapper in your wool suit with a ivory pipe hanging from your mouth.”

“So, I’d be dying of cancer then?” I joked as we took a walk around the room.

“Well, how else would I become a wealthy heiress?” She smirked. “We’d have our adorable little children behind us along with the nanny, of course. Because what high-society family didn’t employ a nanny?”

“Naturally,” I agreed.

She stopped at one of the pictures and silently studied it. The scene wasn’t very different from what she’d just been dreaming up in her head—a wealthy young family taking the train on a lovely spring day. The woman was just as Cara had described—overdressed in many layers but beautiful and poised with her stylish husband nearby. A bevy of children followed behind with a tired woman holding up the rear.

“I wonder what happened to them,” I found myself saying.

I’d never really cared for history. As far as my own family history went, it tended to only serve as a reminder of failure.

“Life,” she simply said, still staring down at the anonymous family now long gone. “Life happened. The good, bad, and everything in between. Probably for them though, knowing the year this was taken,” she said, nodding toward the date in the corner, “a lot of bad. World War I was declared not too long after this, and World War II followed shortly after. This generation suffered greatly for their freedom.”

“You feel for them, don’t you? Even though they’re gone? Even though you never knew them?” I asked, seeing the sadness on her face as her fingers traced the lines of the grainy photo tucked behind the glass.