The amber glow of Horologe & Sons spilled onto the rain-slicked cobblestones, its brass sign creaking like an old man's bones. Lila hesitated, her breath fogging the shop window. Inside, a thousand timepieces whispered—pendulums swaying, gears clicking, their synchronized rhythms a language only the desperate understood.
She pushed the door open. A bell jingled, too cheerful for a place that reeked of dust and regret. Behind the counter stood a man so gaunt he might've been assembled from clock hands. His nameplate read *Mr. Horologe*.
"Lost time isn't found, Miss Voss," he said without looking up. "It's bargained for."
Lila's throat tightened. How did he know her name? Her reason for coming? The overtime hours bled into weekends, the promotion dangled then snatched away—her boss's laughter still ringing in her ears. *"You think loyalty matters? Time's the currency, sweetheart. You're bankrupt."*
Mr. Horologe lifted a velvet case. Inside lay a pocket watch, its silver casing etched with serpents swallowing their own tails. "One rotation buys twelve rewound hours. But choose wisely—every twist fractures reality."
"Reality's already broken," she muttered, handing over her grandmother's pearl necklace. The trade left her collarbone cold.
That night, Lila wound the watch. Midnight dissolved into a blur of reversed moments: her resignation letter flying back into the printer, spilled coffee defying gravity into her mug, her boss's smirk unraveling as she countered his every sabotage. By dawn, she'd secured the promotion.
But her reflection showed cracks. Literally. A hairline fissure split her bathroom mirror, tracing the path where she'd slammed her fist days prior—an anger she'd undone. When she called her mother, the voice that answered was younger, carefree. *"Lila? Who's Lila? I only have a son."*
Panicking, she sprinted to the clock shop. The bell's chime now sounded like a funeral dirge. Mr. Horologe stood amidst dismantled clocks, his fingers stained with oil and something darker.
"You altered more than time," he rasped. "Every edit demands collateral. Your mother's memory? A down payment." He gestured to a wall of stopped clocks, each labeled with names. "They all thought they could cheat life's ledger."
A grandfather clock chimed. Lila's left hand turned translucent. "Reverse it!" she begged.
"Can't un-ring a bell. But…" He slid a key across the counter. "Open the basement door. Destroy the master gear. It'll freeze every timeline here—including yours."
The stairs groaned underfoot. Below, a monstrous engine pulsed, its central gear larger than a mill wheel. Cogs interlocked with photographs: her first birthday, her father's funeral, the hospital where her mother now lay comatose—events rearranged by her tampering.
Lila raised the key. To stop this meant accepting her unraveled life. But in the frozen silence, maybe she could stitch herself back together—scarred, but authentic.
As the gear shattered, time exhaled.