The Clockmaker's Lament

The workshop smelled of oil and iron, its walls lined with hundreds of clocks all ticking in dissonant rhythm. Viktor’s hands trembled as he wound the silver pocket watch for the third time that hour. It had arrived mysteriously - no note, no return address - its gears etched with symbols that made his mathematician’s mind itch.

When the hands aligned at 3:16 AM, the world dissolved.

Suddenly he stood in his childhood kitchen, watching his 12-year-old self argue with his father. “You’ll never amount to anything!” the man roared, throwing Viktor’s clockwork toy bird against the wall. Young Viktor fled, just as he’d done thirty years ago. But this time, present-day Viktor stepped forward.

“Wait.” His voice cracked. The father turned, face twisting in confusion. The pocket watch grew hot in Viktor’s palm as he spoke words he’d rehearsed for decades. When the vision faded, he awoke back in his workshop. The clocks now showed different dates.

His hands shook as he opened the drawer where he kept his antidepressants - empty. The prescription he’d relied on for fifteen years didn’t exist here. Outside, a church spire he’d watched being built stood completed since 1992.

The watch ticked mockingly. Every fix created new fractures.