The Day That Wouldn't End
The boy woke to the sound of rain against the roof. Not the soft pattering kind, but heavy, hammering, relentless. The room was gray, washed in the dull light of morning. The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, as though competing with the rain.
He lay there listening, his body warm beneath the quilt, unwilling to move. The air smelled faintly of damp wood and earth, the scent that always crept into the house when storms came. For a moment, he wished the day would dissolve back into night, that the tick of the clock would reverse, carrying him back into dreams.
But footsteps echoed in the hallway. His grandmother's. Slow, deliberate, each step dragging slightly before it lifted again. She pushed the door open and said, "Up, child. It's a school day."
School. The word dropped heavy in his stomach.
The walk to school was long when the sky was clear, but in rain it doubled, tripled. He trudged beside his grandmother, the umbrella tilting more toward her than him. Water seeped into his shoes, his socks squelching with each step. He stared at the puddles, at the way the raindrops shattered across the surface, rippling outward, then smoothing again as though nothing had touched them.
"Keep your head up," she said. "You'll drown in your own sulking if you don't."
He lifted his eyes reluctantly. The road stretched before him, shiny with rain, lined with fences and leaning mailboxes. Beyond them, fields bowed under the weight of water, green turned dark and glistening. Everything smelled of wet soil, sharp and clean.
The boy dragged his feet slower, hoping she would relent and let him turn back. But her hand tightened on his shoulder. "Come on now. Time won't wait for us."
That phrase struck him. Time won't wait. It followed him all the way to the schoolhouse, echoing like the tick of a clock.
The classroom was warm and damp, windows fogged from the steam of wet coats and boots. The teacher, a tall man with a narrow face, wrote words on the blackboard in a hand so swift it seemed like a dance. The boy stared at the chalk dust rising, white against the black surface, and thought it looked like the dust at home in the sunlight.
But here, the dust doesn't settle.....it fell quickly, disappearing before he could follow its path.
The hours crawled. He copied letters onto his slate, erased them, copied again. The teacher's voice droned, words blurring into a single long note, like the hum of bees. The boy's mind drifted.
He imagined the pocket watch in his hand, ticking faster, carrying him away from the classroom, out into the field, up into the branches of the oak. He could almost feel the rough bark beneath his palms. He pressed harder on the slate until the chalk snapped in two.
A laugh rose from the desk behind him. The teacher glanced back, his brow heavy with disapproval. "Careful, boy. Time won't slow down just because your hand is clumsy."
Again, time won't slow down. The phrase prickled his skin, though he could not say why.
By midday, the rain had stopped. The children spilled outside, their voices bright and sharp against the dull sky. They ran across the muddy yard, shoes slipping, hands flinging water from the swings. The boy stood apart, watching.
He saw a girl kneel by a puddle, her reflection staring up at her. She poked the surface with a stick, distorting her own face until it no longer resembled her. He wondered if she liked that, erasing herself for a moment.
Another boy climbed the fence, daring gravity to pull him down. When he leapt, his landing splashed mud across his clothes, but he laughed as though he had beaten the earth itself.
The boy remained still, his hands deep in his pockets. The world moved too quickly out here. Laughter rose and fell in waves, chasing itself like wind. He wanted to join, but his legs felt rooted, like the oak tree.
Instead, he crouched near the puddles and dipped his finger into the water. Cold ripples spread, bending the clouds above. For a moment, he thought: Maybe time is water, always moving, impossible to hold.
Afternoon dragged itself back into the classroom. The teacher's voice grew sharper, scolding restless bodies. Outside, the clouds tore open, shafts of sunlight falling on the wet earth. The room brightened, the chalk dust shimmering again.
The boy's eyelids drooped. He fought sleep, scratching shapes into his slate that meant nothing. Circles, lines, shadows. A clock, then a tree, then the cracked face of the watch.
Finally, the bell rang. The sound cut through the room like a blade. The children erupted, grabbing coats, shoving books into bags. The boy moved slower, his body heavy, as though the day had drained him.
The walk home was quieter. His grandmother did not rush, and the boy trailed behind her, staring at the road. The puddles had begun to dry, leaving dark stains on the dirt. The air smelled fresh, washed clean.
Halfway home, he paused. A snail crawled across the path, its body glistening, its shell streaked with lines that looked like the rings of a tree. The boy knelt, watching it. Each movement was slow, deliberate, patient.
His grandmother turned, frowning. "Come along now. You'll be late."
"Late for what?" he asked.
"For supper."
He looked down at the snail, still inching forward, leaving behind a shining trail. Late for supper, late for everything. But the snail didn't care. Its world was one step, then another.
The boy stood reluctantly, following her. But the snail stayed with him in his thoughts, a quiet defiance against the rushing of clocks.
Evening returned with its familiar rituals. His grandmother knitting, his father silent at the table, the clock ticking heavy. The boy sat on the floor with the watch in his hands. He held it close to his ear, then away, then close again, comparing it to the kitchen clock's deeper rhythm.
Two beats, overlapping, arguing. Which was the real time? The slow one, steady as footsteps? Or the fast one, urgent, racing forward like a heartbeat?
He wanted to ask, but he knew his father would not answer. Instead, he whispered to the watch himself: "Do you walk forward too? Do you ever stop?"
The tick answered, steady, merciless.
That night, lying in bed, the boy stared at the ceiling. The day stretched behind him like a long shadow. School, puddles, snails, clocks.....each moment distinct, yet tangled. He felt as though the hours had folded over each other, heavy, refusing to let go.
It had been a day that wouldn't end. A day that showed him how time could drag and rush, wound and heal, carry laughter and silence all within the same ticking.
As his eyes closed, the last sound he heard was the clock in the kitchen. Not fast, not slow, just steady. A reminder that tomorrow was already waiting, already walking toward him.