Travel Through Time

The pocket watch ticked once after midnight, then struck thirteen.

Mara Ellison froze beside the kitchen sink, one hand submerged in gray dishwater. The sound was too deep for the little silver case resting on the counter. It seemed to come from inside the walls, from beneath the floorboards, from somewhere below the building where the pipes shuddered whenever the upstairs toilet flushed.

She pulled her hand from the water. A plate slipped, struck the porcelain basin, and cracked.

The watch ticked again.

Its minute hand jerked backward.

Mara snatched it up. The metal was cold enough to sting her palm. On the face, the hour hand trembled between twelve and one. A hairline crack ran across the glass, though she had not seen it there ten minutes earlier.

“No,” she whispered.

The hallway outside her apartment answered with a hard knock.

Mara turned toward the door. Her apartment was narrow and overfull, every surface occupied by books, laundry, unopened mail, and the tools of a life that had never quite found its proper shape. The hallway beyond the door was worse. A bicycle leaned against the coat rack. Two moving boxes blocked half the passage. Her landlord had left a dead fern beneath the fuse panel, its brittle leaves brushing the wallpaper whenever the heat came on.

Another knock sounded.

“Mara?” called Mr. Vale from the stairwell. “Everything all right?”

She looked at the watch. The hands had stopped.

“I’m fine,” she called.

A pause.

Then, “Your lights are flickering.”

The bulbs above her began to blink. Once. Twice. On the third flicker, the kitchen stretched.

Not visibly. Not like rubber or cloth. The room simply acquired distance. The counter slid away from her. The sink became a pale rectangle at the end of a long corridor. The ticking swelled until it filled her teeth.

Mara gripped the watch.

The hallway light snapped off.

For an instant, she saw the apartment as a negative image: white furniture, black windows, the silver watch shining in her fist. Then the floor lurched beneath her.

She fell against the front door. The chain rattled. Something struck the wall behind her with a pop like a rifle shot, and the door flew open.

Cold rain slapped her face.

Mara stumbled onto the pavement.

She landed hard on one knee, the watch clenched against her ribs. Water ran beneath her fingers. She pushed herself upright, expecting the familiar row of brick buildings, the pharmacy sign across the street, the blue glow of the late bus shelter.

None of them were there.

The street was narrower. Gas lamps burned in iron brackets along the walls, their flames blurred by rain. Horse hooves struck the cobbles with frantic, uneven clatter. A carriage swerved around her, its driver shouting as a wheel splashed through a gutter.

Mara backed against a building.

Her building was gone.

In its place stood a three-story facade of soot-darkened stone, its windows tall and narrow. Above the doorway, painted gold letters read ELLIS & SONS - CLOCKMAKERS.

She stared at the sign until rain trickled beneath her collar.

“No,” she said again, but the street offered no correction.

A man in a bowler hat shouted from the carriage. “Clear the way!”

Mara moved too late. The horse reared, iron shoes scraping sparks from the stones. The driver hauled the reins, and the carriage clipped the edge of the curb. A crate toppled from its rear, bursting open at Mara’s feet. Brass gears scattered across the wet street.

The driver swore.

Mara crouched instinctively and caught one of the gears before it rolled into the gutter. Its teeth were warm despite the rain.

A hand seized her shoulder.

“Inside,” a woman hissed.

Mara twisted, ready to strike. The woman wore a dark wool coat buttoned to the throat and a hat pinned low over reddish hair. Her face was young, perhaps thirty, but her eyes had the sharp, exhausted look of someone who had been awake through several bad nights.

“Let go of me.”

“Unless you want the constable to ask why you’re dressed like a lunatic.”

Mara glanced down. She wore jeans, a soaked sweater, and one sneaker. The other had vanished somewhere between the apartment and the street.

The woman dragged her through the clockmaker’s doorway.

Inside, the air was thick with oil, damp wool, and hot metal. Clocks covered every wall. Tall cases stood shoulder to shoulder, their pendulums swinging in uneven rhythm. A workbench filled the back room, crowded with springs, screwdrivers, and disassembled watch movements.

The woman bolted the door.

Outside, the driver continued shouting. A whistle shrilled at the far end of the street.

“Where am I?” Mara asked.

The woman looked at her clothing, then at the watch in Mara’s hand.

“That depends,” she said. “What year do you think it is?”

Mara’s mouth went dry. “2026.”

The woman’s expression changed.

Not disbelief. Recognition.

She stepped closer. “What does it say on the watch?”

Mara looked down. The silver case had opened somehow....