Julian Caul closed his notebook and stared at the clock at the front of the lecture hall. 3:07 p.m. The second hand jerked backward for a split second—just a blink—and then resumed its crawl. He blinked, but the clock looked normal again. It was the third time this week.
Dr. Eliot Vane's voice cut through the haze. "Mr. Caul, you've been awfully quiet today. Any thoughts on the contagious nature of grief in closed social systems?"
Julian hesitated. Half the class turned, waiting for him to say something clever. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the crawling sensation under his skin.
"I think… sometimes people share grief like a virus because it's easier than being alone with it," Julian said. "But sometimes it's more like a…um, ritual. A way to remember, or try to fix what can't be fixed." As he spoke, he caught a flicker at the edge of his vision—a shadow bending in a way the light couldn't explain.
Dr. Vane's lips curled into a faint smile. "Astute. And perhaps a bit uncomfortably honest." He scribbled a note on his pad. "You'll find that line between the clinical and the personal blurs the deeper you dig, Mr. Caul."
Julian nodded, looked down. His hands were trembling. He pressed his thumb against the cracked glass of the old pocket watch in his lap. Its hands spun backward for just a second, then stopped dead at 3:07.
The lecture ended in a murmur of shuffling feet and closing laptops. Julian packed his things slowly, waiting for the room to empty. He felt the prickle of eyes on him—Dr. Vane lingered at the podium, staring, as if he could see straight past Julian's skin.
Imogen was waiting in the hallway, leaning against a bulletin board plastered with grief group flyers and lost pet notices. She smiled when she saw him, but her eyes were a little too sharp.
"You looked like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin in there," she said.
"Probably just need more coffee," Julian lied.
Imogen rolled her eyes. "You always say that when you're hiding something." She glanced at the pocket watch in his hand. "That thing's been acting up again?"
He shrugged. "It's just old."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You know, if you ever want to talk about it… You keep seeing things, don't you?"
Julian felt a cold drop trickle down his spine. He tried to laugh it off, but it came out hollow. "Everyone sees things sometimes. Sleep deprivation. Stress. Overactive imagination."
Imogen was quiet for a moment, studying him. "You know Darren? He's gone. Missed all his classes today. Nobody's heard from him since last night."
Julian's skin prickled. Darren had been at that grief group, hadn't he? The one led by Mara Kells. He remembered Darren's tired eyes, the way he'd clung to the edge of the conversation like he was scared to fall in.
"I'll check his room later," Julian said, voice thin.
Imogen nodded. "You should. I'll go with you."
He forced a smile. "Thanks."
They walked out into the late autumn afternoon. The sky was pewter, heavy with the threat of rain. As they passed the old admin building, Julian caught a glint in a ground floor window—his reflection, but…off. The figure in the glass stayed still as Julian walked, its eyes just a little too bright, its smile a fraction too wide.
Julian stopped, staring. The reflection blinked, and for a moment, the world spun—he heard a whisper, too low to make out, like someone calling his name from underwater.
Imogen tugged his sleeve. "Hey. You okay?"
He looked away from the window. The reflection was gone.
"Yeah," he lied again, voice barely audible. "Just thought I saw something."
They kept walking. Behind them, the windowpane rippled, just for a second, like something was trying to push through.
That night, Julian sat in his room, the campus outside silent but for distant sirens and the soft hum of city life. He stared at the pocket watch on his desk. Its hands were stuck at 3:07, the glass catching the light and splitting it into silvery lines across his wall.
He opened his laptop and pulled up his essay draft: "Echo Structures and Trauma Rituals in Shared Delusion States."
He typed three words, then deleted them. His mind kept circling back to Darren, to the clock, to the voice in the mirror.
A whisper, barely louder than the hum of his computer, seemed to curl around the room: "Julian. Remember."
He spun around. No one there.
He closed his eyes, but the whisper crawled into his dreams, and somewhere, a clock ticked backward.