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For Time Job

For Me, For Us, For Everyone

Cigarette smoke curls in the stagnant air, the dim glow of a dying bulb casting twisted shadows against the walls littered with half-torn articles and red-thread connections. Somewhere between the ink-stained papers and the scattered pills, a man sits—silent, unmoving, staring blankly at a stuffed monkey in a clown suit. A detective, they call him. A man of justice, a solver of mysteries. But behind the applause and empty praises, behind the sharp smiles and hollow congratulations, he is nothing but a walking contradiction—one hand holding a case file, the other exchanging cash for little plastic sachets. His mind is a labyrinth of voices, whispers that coil around his thoughts like suffocating vines. His brother grins at him from the corners of his vision, eyes glinting with the truth he refuses to face. His father’s voice is gentle, forgiving—too forgiving. Too much for a man who doesn’t deserve it. Each pill swallowed is another step into the illusion, another moment of stolen happiness before the weight of reality drags him under. He walks the city streets, drowning in faces that admire him, loathe him, see him as something he is not. He is both a hero and a villain, a detective and a criminal, a man trying to outrun the past while shackled to its corpse. And at the end of the night, when the echoes of the world fall away, all that remains is the darkness, the whispers, and the suffocating truth—he can never escape them.
Zeisn · 0 Views

Splinters of Time

In the coastal town of **Sarween**, where the waves of the sea collide with the curse of suspended time, a legend unfolds about a man imprisoned in an endless loop of guilt and oblivion. Adham, the writer who turned his heart into a ledger of lies and ghosts, battles the demons of his memory through **stone towers** that rise from the belly of the sea like divine punishment. Here, where events are born from the womb of pain, **Yara** transforms from a lost daughter into a cosmic enigma: a child who vanishes on a crimson night, only to return as mathematical ciphers that pierce the fabric of reality. Her letters are not cries for help, but calls from parallel worlds mocking humanity’s attempts to grasp time. The **twenty towers**, numbered with the blood of victims, are not mere stone—they are open books bleeding with the wounds of a past rewriting itself. Each tower is a mirror reflecting Adham’s fractured selves: a terrified child, a guilty youth, a weary old man. The **scar above the heart** is but a fiery seal reminding him that the truth is a beast fiercer than any fiction. In this world, time is a poisoned loop: the sea spits out corpses bearing identical DNA, the **white shark** devours the dreams of the past, and shattered mirrors forge parallel universes where Yara does not die… but morphs into an idea haunting her creator. This tale is not a narrative, but a morbid dance between creator and creation. Adham, who believed writing would redeem him, discovers he authored his own prison with his hands: every sentence carved a scar, every chapter lit a candle in the darkness of his conscience. This novel is not about lost time, but about a being who builds his cage from falsified memories and battles mirrors reflecting his image as a crownless executioner. Here, in Sarween, the truth is not a victim… but a killer cloaked in martyrdom. Thus unfolds the legend of **Shards of Time**: like Narcissus gazing at his reflection in the river of memory, drinking from it until death. But here, the river is a sea that regurgitates the names of victims every night, and the mirrors do not reflect faces… they devour them.
Muntadher_Khudhur · 744 Views
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