The Clockmaker’s Last Minute

The village clock refused to strike thirteen. Every night, Ezra wound it, hoping for a crack in time, a whisper from tomorrow.

Neighbors complained. “It’s just a clock,” they said. But Ezra knew better. He had seen the shadows of moments yet to come, stretching like fingers across his walls.

One evening, a woman in violet shoes appeared at his door. She held a watch that ticked backward. “I’m late,” she said. “Or maybe too early.”

Ezra took it, felt the tick slip under his skin. He wound his clock, listened, and the walls of the room softened into something liquid.

The thirteenth chime arrived—silent, soft as a sigh. Outside, the villagers moved like marionettes, repeating yesterday in reverse. Ezra stepped out.

He felt the wind rearrange his hair, his thoughts, even the order of his memories.

When the woman left, the backward watch vanished. But the village still hummed to the thirteenth chime, and Ezra smiled. Time, after all, had grown curious.

—Etta Wynn