Clara Benton woke up on a wooden bed that creaked with every breath she took. The air was cold and smelled of smoke and earth. When she tried to sit up, her hands touched coarse sheets, not the smooth cotton of her old apartment. Outside the window she saw fields stretching toward a dirt road and a few wooden houses under a pale sky. Her heart froze. This was not her world anymore.

The last thing she remembered was the rain, the screech of tires, and a blinding light. Now she was in another time, another life. Her reflection in the small metal mirror showed a young face with long brown hair tied in a rough braid. She searched her memory, piecing together what had happened. Somewhere deep inside, she knew this was early America, maybe a small colonial town still building itself from nothing.

When a woman entered with a basket of bread and called her “Clara,” she understood that this was her new name, her new identity. The woman explained she had been sick for days, found by the river and cared for by the townsfolk. Clara thanked her, pretending to remember. Inside, she felt both fear and excitement.

The world outside was simple. Men worked the fields, women bartered at the small open market near the church. Clara followed the smell of baked goods and walked there. Stalls were made from wood, covered with cloth. The people traded with coins or crops. She watched a man sell salt and another sell candles at prices that made no sense. Everything was expensive, and every merchant tried to take as much as possible from each customer.

Clara’s modern mind began to work. She thought of the stores from her old life, the idea of lower prices bringing more people. If she could sell at fair prices, even with small profit, people would come again and again. That was the first spark of her new life.

That night she wrote with a piece of charcoal on paper she found near the fireplace: Low price, clean stall, friendly service, repeat customers. It was a simple list, but it became her rule. She looked at the stars and whispered, “If I’m here again, I’ll build something different.”

Over the next few days she traded small things she found—her handmade soap and old fabric—to a neighbor for dried apples and sugar. She realized she could make her own soap with herbs and sell it. She cleaned an empty corner beside the road and made a small stall. She placed every item neatly, tied with thin rope. Children stopped to look, curious. Some women smiled. Her first customer was an old farmer’s wife who bought two bars of soap. Clara smiled and said softly, “Come again, next time I’ll give you a better deal.”

That day, she earned only a few coins, but it was the beginning of something that had never existed in that world. As the sun set, Clara stood behind her stall, her hands cold but her heart warm. She had nothing except memory and determination, yet that was enough to start changing history.