Nath & Sons Timepieces

Rain didn’t just fall that night in Calcutta—it came down like the sky was mad at the city. You ever hear rain slap pavement so hard it sounds like someone’s beating a drum with a vengeance? That was it. Streetlights buzzed and blinked, and the air? Tasted like licking the edge of a coin. Detective Ishaan Roy stood hunched in front of this skinny little shop wedged between two buildings that looked half-asleep. Above him, a sign swung and groaned in the wind: “N.G. Nath & Sons — Watchmakers Since 1893.” Old-school, right? Tonight, though, the shop looked as dead as disco. Shutters halfway down, lights out, not even that little bell above the door bothered to jingle. Inside, it smelled like oil, old wood, and brass—a scent that settles in your bones if you’ve ever been around clocks. Every wall dripped with time: grandfather clocks looming, pocket watches gleaming, pendulums swinging. Well, most of them. Except for one. In the middle of the shop, a big wooden display case stood there, glass all spiderwebbed and empty inside. The “Black Hour” pocket watch—yeah, the one everyone in the city gossiped about—gone. And so was Narayan Nath, the 72-year-old who ran the place. Poof. No note, no struggle, nothing but a weird silence. Ishaan picked his way across the floor, flashlight beam jittering over a pile of tools scattered across the counter like someone knocked them over in a hurry. He knew Narayan—guy was a total creature of habit. Moved like clockwork, lived alone, never late for anything in his life. Couldn’t have been a robbery. The cash drawer looked untouched, nothing else missing. Just the Black Hour. And old Narayan. At the back, a skinny door opened onto a spiral staircase. Every step shrieked under Ishaan’s boots. Upstairs? Tidy as a hotel room before checkout. Slippers tucked under the bed, mug on the table, jacket on the chair. But then he spotted it. A cup of tea, still steaming. Barely, but you could see it if you squinted. Narayan had been here, what, maybe an hour ago? He hadn’t left. He’d just...disappeared. Back downstairs, Ishaan stopped by an old wall clock. The hands frozen at 11:11 PM. That was weird. This wasn’t some junker—it was a fancy piece, freshly serviced. No way it just stopped. Unless someone made it stop. And then—tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. But it wasn’t coming from any of the clocks. It was under the floor. Ishaan crouched, rapped on the wood. Hollow. Secret compartment, maybe? He wedged his pocket knife in and popped a panel loose. Inside: an envelope, yellowed and sealed with wax. On the front, a message in neat, careful script: > “To whoever looks for me next.” His heart did a little somersault. He tore it open. Inside: > “Time is not what you think it is. They are watching. Don’t trust anyone who wears a red watch.” No signature. Just a drawing of a clock, hands at 13:13. Yeah, 13:13—a time that doesn't even exist. Ishaan just stared at the note, that ticking in his ears growing louder by the second. Narayan hadn’t just vanished. He’d slipped into something deeper—something hiding in the heartbeat of every clock. And now, the clocks weren’t just marking time. They were counting down.