The silence was unnatural.
No ticking, no hum, no whisper of gears.
Just the still air, thick and motionless, as if time itself was holding its breath.
Vyom sat upright in bed, his small fists clutching the blanket. The room was frozen. Even the faint curtain flutter had gone still mid-sway.
He looked toward the far corner—where the doll sat.
Its eyes were open now.
"D–did you stop the clocks?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
The doll tilted its head ever so slightly.
"No," it replied. "You did."
Vyom blinked. "I… did?"
The doll's head moved again—slowly, like a puppet guided by invisible strings. "The moment you woke, the hands obeyed. Time answers those who have been… chosen."
He didn't understand. Chosen? For what?
His heart hammered in his chest, too loud for the silence surrounding him.
Then came a faint sound—
Click… click… click…
The noise came from beneath the floorboards. Vyom climbed off the bed, bare feet brushing against the cold marble. The sound grew sharper, faster. He followed it to the door and peered down the dark hallway that led to his father's workshop.
The door was open.
Blue light seeped through the gap, faint but pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Papa…?" he called softly.
No answer.
Vyom tiptoed closer. Each step echoed unnaturally—delayed, like his footfalls were repeating themselves a second too late.
When he reached the threshold, the sight before him made him freeze.
Every clock in the workshop had come alive again—but not as before.
Their hands were spinning backward. Cuckoo clocks shrieked in reverse, sand in hourglasses climbed upward, and the broken pocket watch—the one locked behind glass—was glowing brighter than the moon.
Its cracked surface gleamed with blue veins of light, pulsating like something alive.
Vyom's father stood in front of it, unmoving.
"Papa?" he whispered again.
The man didn't respond.
Then, slowly, his father turned his head—only slightly—and Vyom's breath caught.
His father's eyes were open… but hollow, as if something had drained the color and warmth from them.
"Papa, what's wrong?" Vyom stepped forward.
The man's lips twitched. For a moment, it seemed like he would speak—but instead, a voice came, not from him, but from the pocket watch.
> "The Hour That Should Not Move… has begun again."
Vyom stumbled back, clutching the edge of a stool. "Who's there?!"
> "The one who waited," the voice replied, echoing like the turning of a thousand gears. "The one you sealed away."
He didn't understand—but deep inside, something cold and old stirred within him. A memory he didn't know he had.
The feeling of falling—again.
A flash of another world, another life.
A tall shadow standing atop a skyscraper, blood dripping from his hands.
Vyom's head throbbed violently.
He gasped, clutching his temples.
"Stop!" he screamed. "Make it stop!"
The workshop lights flickered, then burst. Glass rained down.
Every clock's pendulum halted at once—and time snapped back into motion.
His father collapsed.
Vyom rushed forward, shaking him by the arm. "Papa! Papa, wake up!"
His mother came running, his sister right behind her. Within minutes, the small house filled with confusion and fear.
His father lay breathing, unconscious but alive. No burns, no wounds, no explanation.
And when the doctor arrived the next morning, he could only say one thing:
> "He's… dreaming. But his pulse rhythm—it's inverted. As if his heartbeat is ticking backward."
---
That night, Vyom couldn't sleep.
His mother had forbidden him from entering the workshop again. The door was locked, yet he could still hear faint ticking from inside. Not normal ticking—but uneven, stuttering backward sounds, like an unseen clock mocking him through the wood.
He sat by the window, hugging his knees.
Outside, the world looked normal—but even the stars seemed slightly out of place, as if constellations had shifted overnight.
The doll was sitting on his table again.
"Why are you doing this to me?" Vyom asked it softly. "Why did my papa get hurt?"
The doll didn't answer right away. When it finally did, the words were barely a whisper.
> "You are not the first to stop time, Vyom.
You are only the next."
He frowned. "Next…?"
> "The one before you broke the world once.
And now, it's your turn to decide if it should be broken again."
Vyom's throat went dry. He wanted to scream that he didn't understand—but somehow, deep inside, he did. There was something within him—an echo of another self, trapped, waiting.
He turned to the window once more.
The moon hung high, glowing cold and blue.
Then, slowly, he realized… the moon was moving backward.
The night was reversing.
---
Downstairs, his father's body stirred for the first time.
His hand twitched.
The pocket watch on the table clicked softly—and stopped glowing. Its hands froze again at 3:03.
But beneath the cracked glass, just faintly, a reflection shifted—
Not of the room, but of a city skyline under rain.
And in that reflection stood a man in a black coat, half-smiling.
"Welcome back… Vyom."
---
End of Chapter 4: The Clock That Ticked Backward