“Five thousand pounds for a bucket?” Thomas whispered in disbelief, his weathered hands trembling as he held the glossy catalog. The luxury boutique’s latest offering—a leather-wrapped champagne bucket—cost more than he’d earn in three months at the factory.

Having been reborn into this era after a lifetime of poverty in Victorian London, Thomas thought he’d seen it all. But some things, it seemed, never changed. The obscene displays of wealth amid grinding poverty felt eerily familiar.

“It’s the height of sophistication, sir,” chirped the saleswoman, her pearl necklace catching the boutique’s carefully curated lighting. “Each piece is handcrafted by artisans in—”

“My daughter needs medicine,” Thomas cut in, his voice hoarse. “The NHS waitlist is months long. Private care costs thousands…”

The saleswoman’s smile flickered but held firm. “Perhaps I could show you our more… accessible collection?”

Thomas felt a bitter laugh bubble up inside him. In his past life, he’d watched children die in workhouses while the wealthy dined off golden plates. Now, centuries later, he witnessed parents choosing between heating and eating while others spent fortunes on decorative buckets.

“Do you know what five thousand pounds means to most people?” he asked quietly. “It’s half a year’s rent. It’s life-saving medication. It’s—”

“Sir, if you’re not here to make a purchase, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Outside, the autumn rain fell in sheets. Thomas pulled his thin jacket tighter, watching through the window as a young couple entered the boutique. The woman’s diamond rings caught the light as she pointed excitedly at the bucket display.

His phone buzzed—a text from his daughter’s mother: “Hospital says we need £2000 deposit for treatment. Any luck?”

Thomas closed his eyes, memories of his past life flooding back. The same disparities, the same indifference, just dressed in modern clothes. He’d been reborn hoping to find a more equitable world, only to discover that while the trappings had changed, the fundamental injustices remained.

Opening his eyes, he typed back: “Still trying.”

As he walked away, he could hear Charles Dickens’s words echoing across the centuries: “Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen and six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery.”

The rain grew heavier, but Thomas barely noticed. In his mind, he was already formulating his next plan. He’d lived two lives witnessing society’s inequities—perhaps it was time to do more than just observe. His daughter needed him, and if this world wouldn’t change on its own, maybe it needed a push.

But as he disappeared into the grey London afternoon, he knew that some battles couldn’t be won, some gaps couldn’t be bridged. The bucket would sell, his daughter would suffer, and the wheel would keep turning, crushing those caught beneath it—just as it had for centuries.