ARC 1: SHATTERED TIME
Chapter 1: The Ghost & The Watc
A rain-slicked city (modern, unnamed). Gray skies, neon reflections bleeding into puddles, the smell of wet concrete and exhaust.
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Elias Kane moved through the crowds like a shadow.
Shoulders tight, gaze fixed ahead, he didn't flinch when a bus hissed past, spraying murky water over the sidewalk. People sidestepped him—not out of fear, but instinct. There was a hollowed-out stillness to him, the kind that warned: *Empty inside. Do not touch.*
War had carved him into this.
A rifle's weight still lived in his palms. Sleep meant desert sand choking his lungs, the *crack-thump* of mortars, the silence after a scream. Peace? A myth sold to broken men.
He stopped at a crosswalk, rain tracing the scars on his knuckles. Across the street, a couple laughed under one umbrella. Elias looked away. Joy felt like a foreign language—one he'd forgotten how to speak.
**(THE MYSTERIOUS SHOP)**
A flicker of gold snagged his eye.
Tucked between a pawnshop and a boarded-up diner, a narrow storefront glowed. Its sign: a single, ornate **hourglass** wrought in iron, no name beneath it. The glass in its windows was warped, ancient.
*Weird.* He'd walked this block a hundred times. Never seen it.
Something tugged at him—not curiosity, but the pull of a current dragging a drowning man. Before he knew it, he was pushing the door open. A bell chimed, high and clear as ice cracking.
Inside, time felt…*thick*.
Dust motes danced in slants of amber light. Shelves bowed under clocks of every shape—grandfathers with lunar faces, brass-caged ship chronometers, digital displays glitching in dead languages. The air hummed, tasting of ozone and old paper.
Behind a counter cluttered with gears and porcelain faces stood the Shopkeeper.
Thin. Ageless. Eyes like tarnished silver coins.
"Looking for something specific?" The voice was dry leaves skittering on stone.
Elias shifted, suddenly aware of his damp jacket, his rough hands. "Just browsing."
The Shopkeeper's gaze lingered on Elias's left wrist—where a watch *should* be, but wasn't. Hadn't been, since the day his unit was ambushed outside Fallujah. Timepieces brought back the sound of countdowns.
**(THE POCKET WATCH)**
His fingers brushed cold metal.
In a tray of tangled chains and broken fobs, it lay half-buried. A pocket watch. Brass casing, tarnished to a bruised green. Its face was cream-colored porcelain, Roman numerals faded. And the glass…*cracked*. A single, jagged line splitting XII to VI.
He picked it up.
It was heavier than it looked. Cold seeped into his palm, then faded into something else—a faint, persistent *thrum*, like a second heartbeat.
*TICK.*
Not a sound. A *vibration* against his lifeline.
"An interesting choice," murmured the Shopkeeper. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "It has…*history*."
"How much?" Elias heard himself ask. He didn't want a watch. He wanted to leave this cloying, silent place. But his hand wouldn't open.
"For you?" The Shopkeeper tilted his head. "A trade. Your ghosts… for its time."
Elias stiffened. *Crazy old man.* He reached for his wallet. "Cash. How much?"
The Shopkeeper sighed, a sound like a key turning in a long-rusted lock. "Twenty-seven dollars. And a piece of advice: Wind it only when your tears fall."
**(A GLIMMER IN THE GRAY)**
Elias shoved bills onto the counter, the watch a cold weight in his pocket. He fled the shop, the bell's chime chasing him into the downpour.
He walked fast, head down, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. The watch pulsed against his thigh. *Stupid. Buying junk to fill the quiet.*
He turned a corner—and froze.
Under the awning of a closed flower shop stood a woman.
She was shaking rain from a canvas tote bag, laughing softly as droplets clung to her eyelashes. Brown curls escaped her messy bun. She wore paint-splattered overalls, and her smile…
Her smile was sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
For the first time in years, Elias Kane *felt* something.
Not the ache of old wounds. Not the numb static.
A jolt. Clean. Startling. Like stepping on a live wire.
Their eyes met.
Hers were warm brown, curious, alive.
He fumbled, the pocket watch slipping from his fingers. It hit the wet pavement with a soft *clink*.
She was there before he could bend down. Picking it up, careful, her fingers brushing his as she handed it back.
"Careful," she said, her voice like honey and charcoal. "Some things are too precious to break twice." She nodded at the crack in the glass.
He couldn't speak. Could only stare, the watch burning cold in his hand, her smile echoing in the hollow places war had carved inside him.
"I'm Aria," she said, still smiling.
Wind whipped rain between them. The city roared.
But Elias Kane heard only the watch's silent, stubborn *thrum-thrum-thrum* against his skin.
(END CHAPTER)