Clockmaker

 The first time Liora heard the ticking, she thought it was a neighbor’s wall clock. It was faint: slow, rhythmic, almost soothing, until she realized it was coming from inside her bedroom closet.

A chill crawled up her spine. The small apartment she had moved into after her father’s death had no clocks. He had despised them with all his heart.

For hours she sat frozen on her bed, listening as the slow ticks grew louder, sharper, more confident. At dawn, when she finally gathered the courage to open the closet door, the sound stopped instantly, as if the world was holding its breath.

Inside, nestled atop an old quilt, rested a pocket watch she had never seen before.

It seemed to be made of burnished silver, an antique engraved with patterns she didn’t recognize. Intricate. Beautiful. Abnormal.

She slammed the door shut and didn’t touch it.

The second time was weeks later, after the layoffs. After the funeral expenses, the debt collectors circling her like vultures. Her father had left her nothing but memories; they were dark ones, quiet, which she refused to confront. And now, with her job gone and eviction looming ahead like an ancient monster, desperation drove her to the one object she didn’t dare think about.

The pocket watch sat exactly where she had left it, as if patiently waiting. The moment her fingertips brushed against the cold metal, it flipped open on its own.

The ticking roared to life, a hundred times louder than before, as if coming from right beside her ears rather than her hand.

Time rushed backward. Not in the world around her, no, everything remained still. But inside her mind, memories unfurled and spread that weren’t hers. She saw strangers living entire lives in flashes, every emotion sharp enough to cut into her skin. Their joys, regrets, and final moments.

And in the center of it all, she saw her father, cross-legged at his workbench, carving symbols into clock faces with trembling hands, whispering prayers to a darkness. And the darkness answered back.

Liora gasped, wanting to drop the watch, but her fingers wouldn’t let go. They were stuck to the cold metal that seemed to leech heat from her skin, unable to let go.

Hours passed.

When the watch finally released her, she collapsed onto the floor, breathless and shaking. But she didn’t question how she suddenly remembered every detail of a stranger’s childhood, or why the knowledge she had gained made writing grants and proposals effortless, uncanny even.

Within days, she secured a new job. Within weeks, promotions. Recognition. Wealth. The watch granted her exactly what she needed.

Exactly what it wanted her to have.

The third time happened without her choosing it.

She woke at midnight to the ticking again, but it wasn’t in the closet anymore. It pulsed beneath her skin.

Panicked, she rummaged through drawers, throwing belongings onto the floor, until she found the pocket watch silently waiting on her nightstand.

It was open.

Its hands spun violently, faster than her heartbeat, and even faster than she could think. The room warped around her, bending under a pressure she couldn’t name, as if an eldritch abomination was exerting its presence upon the world. Her vision blurred at the edges. She felt herself slipping out of her body like the watch was pulling her into the very gears of time itself.

Her pulse synchronized with the ticking. Then surpassed it. And finally, it faltered.

The metal grew hot this time, searing into her palm. She tried to scream but only a thin rasp escaped. Her bones felt too light, as if they were being carved from the inside out, becoming hollow. Her memories slipped free like sand through a sieve, even as she tried her best to hold onto them with desperation. First mundane ones, then precious ones, then the ones she thought she could never forget. Each forgotten moment, each lost face, took a small chunk out of her heart.

Her father’s face was the last to go. And with it disappeared what little was left of her soul.

As she fell forward, everything went silent.

The pocket watch snapped shut.

And in the stillness that followed, the ticking continued. It was steady, patient, and utterly alive, waiting for the next person foolish enough to pick it up and commit the same mistake that the last one had.