“How peculiar,” Eleanor mused, gazing at the iridescent fish swimming lazy circles in her antique bowl. “You seem rather melancholic for an aquatic creature.”

The fish, which she’d inexplicably found in her great-grandmother’s brass vessel that morning, merely stared back with eerily human eyes.

“I suppose we’re both trapped in vessels of someone else’s making,” Eleanor sighed, adjusting her suffocating corset. The year was 1847, and she was painfully aware of society’s constraints on a woman of her status.

“You’d be depressed too if you’d seen what I’ve seen,” the fish suddenly spoke, causing Eleanor to nearly overturn her writing desk.

“Good heavens! You… speak?”

“I’m a time traveler, trapped in this absurd fish form by a witch from 2157. Quite the predicament, wouldn’t you agree?”

Eleanor clutched her chest, torn between horror and fascination. “I must be going mad. The pressures of finding a suitable marriage prospect have finally broken my constitution.”

“Oh please,” the fish rolled its eyes, “you humans and your rigid social structures. In my time, we’ve evolved beyond such trivial matters. Though I must say, your era’s obsession with propriety makes for fascinating anthropological study.”

Over the following weeks, Eleanor found herself increasingly drawn to conversations with her peculiar companion. The fish, who called himself Professor Marcus Sterling, shared tales of future marvels while she confided her frustrations with Victorian society’s suffocating expectations.

“It’s rather like being trapped in this bowl,” Marcus observed one evening. “You can see freedom just beyond the glass, but social conventions keep you contained.”

“At least you have your memories of liberation,” Eleanor replied bitterly. “I shall never know such freedom.”

“Perhaps not,” Marcus bubbled thoughtfully, “but you possess something we’ve lost in my time - the courage to feel deeply, to rage against your constraints while maintaining dignity. In 2157, we’ve become rather like fish ourselves - cold-blooded creatures swimming through life without passion.”

Their unlikely friendship blossomed into something deeper, more profound. Eleanor found herself falling in love with Marcus’s brilliant mind and revolutionary ideas, while he discovered that his cynical heart could still feel genuine emotion.

One fateful morning, Eleanor awoke to find the bowl mysteriously cracked, water seeping onto her manuscripts. Marcus floated motionless at the surface.

“Marcus!” she cried, reaching for him.

The moment her fingers touched the water, a brilliant flash illuminated the room. When her vision cleared, she found herself in a sterile white laboratory, face-to-face with a distinguished-looking gentleman in strange clothing.

“Welcome to 2157, my dear Eleanor,” Marcus smiled warmly. “I told you that witch’s curse had a loophole - true love’s touch. Though I must warn you, you might find our ‘advanced’ society rather disappointing.”

Eleanor laughed, taking in the cold efficiency of her surroundings. “Perhaps we could disappoint it together then? I’ve always wanted to start a revolution.”

“A Victorian radical and a disillusioned time traveler - we’ll certainly give them something to talk about,” Marcus grinned, offering his arm.

As they walked out into the sterile future, Eleanor couldn’t help but notice that all the fish in the laboratory’s aquariums seemed to be smirking.