There was only one antique shop on the corner of Baker Street, and it was already a mystery. It was so camouflaged between a laundromat and an old bakery that most people didn't give it another thought. But James Bennett, a young historian with insatiable curiosity, found this shop to be irresistible. Its dusty window featured a motley assembly of relics: a brass compass, a chipped porcelain vase, and the most interesting thing, an ornate clock whose hands were stuck in time.
James had a gift of finding the unusual in the mundane, but even he couldn't explain why he felt an urge to draw nearer to the clock. It was not the fine craftsmanship, although intricate carvings on its frame were exquisite. Something about the clock seemed. alive, almost like it was watching him.
The shopkeeper, a frail man with piercing gray eyes and a voice like creaking wood, greeted James with a faint smile.
"Ah, the clock," the man said, following James's gaze. "It has a way of choosing people."
James chuckled. "Choosing people? It's just a clock."
The shopkeeper's smile didn't waver. "That's what they all say."
Ignoring the enigmatic comment, James leaned in to inspect the clock. Its hands, like thin swords, were stuck at 11:11. The base carried an inscription in a language that James couldn't identify—an odd thing, since he knew his ancient scripts inside out.
"How much for it?" James asked, already seeing the clock on his desk.
The shopkeeper hesitated. "It's not for sale, but perhaps. it could be yours. If you're willing to accept the responsibility."
James frowned. "Responsibility?"
The old man's eyes darkened. "Every second has a price, Mr. Bennett. This clock doesn't just mark time—it changes it."
James laughed, but the man's serious expression silenced him. "Are you saying this clock can. time travel?"
"I'm saying it reveals the consequences of your choices. It's a gift and a curse."
Despite the warning, James couldn't resist. He walked out of the shop with the clock tucked under his arm, the shopkeeper's parting words echoing in his mind: "Remember, the past isn't just a place—it's a mirror. And mirrors can shatter."
That night, James placed the clock on his desk and examined it under the glow of his desk lamp. The inscription still puzzled him. He snapped a photo, intending to decode it later, then turned his attention to the hands. As he touched them, a strange sensation coursed through him—a mix of vertigo and déjà vu.
Suddenly, the clock began to hum, faintly at first, then louder. Its hands moved for the first time, ticking backward until they stopped at 10:30. The room around James shimmered, and he felt a pull, as if the air itself were dragging him somewhere.
When the feeling passed, James found himself in a room he knew yet didn't. His desk, his laptop, his books-all gone. In their place, a typewriter sat on a wooden desk, and the walls were lined with shelves filled with yellowed manuscripts.
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Before he could even process what was happening, a voice startled him.
"James? What are you doing here?"
He turned to see his late grandfather, Thomas Bennett, alive and well, standing in the doorway.