Rip In Time -

Elias was a restorer of "broken things," but this clock was a new kind of broken. He’d found it in the basement of a demolished Victorian estate, caked in dust and smelling of ozone. When he finally wound the brass key, the air in his workshop didn’t just move—it tore.

Elias spun around. Standing by the door was a man who looked like a walking shadow. His clothes were modern, but his eyes were ancient. Rip in Time

Curiosity overrode caution. Elias reached out. His fingers brushed the edge of the tear, and the sensation was like dipping a hand into icy, electrified water. "Don’t," a voice rasped. Elias was a restorer of "broken things," but

"The Rip in Time isn’t a window, Elias," the man said, stepping into the light. It was Elias—older, frailer, his hands scarred by burns he hadn’t received yet. "It’s a leak. Every second you let that clock run, the present drains into the past. You’re trading your 'now' for a 'then' that’s already gone." Elias spun around

Elias looked back at the tear. Through it, he saw his younger self look up, as if sensing a ghost. The colors in the current room were fading, turning the grey of old newsprint. His own hands were becoming translucent.