The next morning arrived with an unusual stillness.
The faint chirping of sparrows outside the window sounded… distant, as if muffled behind a wall of glass. Vyom rubbed his eyes and sat up, still half-dazed from the previous night's strange dream.
For a moment, he didn't remember where he was. Then the familiar smell of clock oil and varnished wood reached his nose. His father's workshop always carried that scent—warm, metallic, and oddly comforting.
He glanced around. Everything was as it should be, except—
tick, tick, tick—
some clocks were out of rhythm.
The grandfather clock by the door was ticking a few seconds slower, while the mantle clock on the shelf raced ahead, almost impatiently. Vyom frowned. His father hated inconsistency in his creations; the clocks were always synchronized to perfection.
He padded barefoot into the workshop. His father was hunched over his desk, tiny tools scattered like silver needles across the surface. The man's expression was unusually tense.
"Papa," Vyom said softly, "why are the clocks fighting?"
His father looked up, blinking behind his glasses. "Fighting?"
"They're not ticking together."
A smile flickered on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe they're sleepy, just like you, hmm?"
Vyom giggled faintly, but the answer didn't convince him. He pointed to the far wall where an old, ornate pocket watch sat locked in a glass case. Its hands were frozen at 3:03.
"That one's still sleeping," he murmured.
His father followed his gaze, and for an instant, the color drained from his face. "That watch is broken," he said quickly. "Don't ever touch it, Vyom."
The boy nodded, though curiosity gnawed quietly at his heart.
---
By afternoon, the small watch shop was open. The steady flow of customers filled the room with chatter and laughter—people bringing in wristwatches, cuckoo clocks, and sometimes even antique timepieces for repair.
Vyom sat near the counter, playing with spare gears while his mother arranged tea. His grandmother hummed softly in the corner, rocking gently on her old wooden chair.
Everything seemed almost normal… until the bell above the door chimed with an unusual echo.
A man stepped in.
He was tall, dressed in a dark coat despite the summer heat, his pale fingers tracing the shelves like one greeting old friends. His voice, when he spoke, was calm—too calm.
"I heard," the man began, "that this shop once made a clock that stopped the flow of time itself."
Vyom's father froze mid-motion. The small screwdriver slipped from his hand, clinking softly onto the table.
"I'm afraid you've been misinformed," he replied, forcing a smile.
The man tilted his head. His eyes—gray, empty—seemed to reflect no light at all. "A pity," he said quietly. "I was hoping to see it again."
Vyom, hiding behind the counter, felt his small fingers tighten around a wooden gear. Again?
The stranger gave a polite nod, turned, and walked out, leaving behind a faint scent of rusted metal.
When the door shut, Vyom peeked up. His father was standing perfectly still, his hand trembling slightly above the drawer where the broken pocket watch rested.
---
That night, the house was quieter than usual.
No one spoke much during dinner. Even his elder sister, always cheerful, seemed uneasy.
After everyone had gone to bed, Vyom lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The faint tick of the clocks around him felt louder than ever. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and whispered, "Why does everyone look scared today?"
A faint rustle answered him.
He turned his head. The doll in the corner—his silent friend with glass-blue eyes—was sitting upright.
"Don't get scared, dear friend," it whispered again, its voice softer than before.
"But tonight," it added, "you must not listen to the ticking."
Vyom's breath hitched. "What do you mean?"
The doll didn't answer. Its porcelain face glowed faintly in the moonlight, lips sealed.
Then, slowly, every clock in the room struck midnight.
DONG. DONG. DONG.
But the sound didn't stop.
The chime echoed endlessly, overlapping like waves, louder and louder, until Vyom covered his ears.
The world around him seemed to ripple. Shadows stretched along the floor like dark fingers.
He shut his eyes tight. And then—
He was falling again.
The same dream.
The same endless drop from a building. Wind roared past his ears, and in the distance below, he saw faint lights—a city skyline, blurred and distant.
A whisper followed him down.
"You will fall many times before you learn to rise."
His eyes snapped open.
He was back in bed, chest heaving. The room was silent again. The clocks had stopped. All of them.
Every tick, every chime—gone.
---
Downstairs, something stirred.
The drawer in his father's workshop creaked open by itself.
The broken pocket watch glowed faintly blue, its cracked glass reflecting the stillness of the house. Slowly, its frozen hands began to move—
backward.
---
End of Chapter 3: The Hour That Stopped