Chapter 2: Clues in the Clock Shop
661 Words
Ishaan Roy was still in the shop, way past midnight. Most folks had gone home, city was dead quiet, but in the clock shop? Nah. That place was alive with the sound of a thousand clocks all arguing about what time it is. Some old, some busted, some that probably ticked through three world wars—just a constant clatter, like the room itself refused to sleep.
He hunched over Narayan Nath’s battered old desk, staring at that weird note again:
> “Time is not what you think it is.
They are watching.
Don’t trust anyone who wears a red watch.”
Seriously, what was this? Who the hell were “they”? And what’s with the red watch? Narayan didn’t just walk out and leave cryptic scavenger hunts behind for fun—something was up, and Ishaan could feel it in his gut.
So, he started digging through the desk drawers. Usual stuff: tiny tools, bits of gears, springs that could jab under your fingernail if you weren’t careful. But the bottom drawer—yeah, jackpot. Buried under some dusty black velvet, he pulled out a leather notebook. The kind you only see in movies about spies or lunatics. Scrawled across the first page in ink thick enough to bleed:
> Narayan G. Nath — Private Notes
He flipped through. First half was just clock nerd stuff—formulas, repairs, sketches that looked like robot guts. Then, outta nowhere, the vibe changed. Gears and springs? Gone.
Now there were weird drawings:
A staircase that twisted off forever.
A clock with no hands.
A door with a giant “13” on it.
And, dead center, a sketch of a watch—face glowing red, creepy as hell.
Underneath: just three words, triple underlined like Narayan was yelling at himself.
> “They see time differently.”
Man, what did that even mean?
At the very back of the notebook, he found a map. Hand-drawn, messy, but definitely the clock shop. Except—hang on—there’s a whole section marked that he’d never seen. A little rectangle in the back labeled: “Silent Room.”
Except, uh, there wasn’t a room there. Or was there? Ishaan tossed the notebook in his coat, went to check it out.
The back wall was all shelves and crusty cabinets loaded with clock parts. But one cabinet—heavy as guilt—didn’t quite fit. Edges all off, like a bad Photoshop job.
He tried pushing it. Nada. So he kicked it, because sometimes you gotta take a more direct approach.
Clang. Hollow.
There was a latch behind it—who puts a latch behind a cabinet? He clicked it and the whole thing shuffled forward like it was on rails.
Behind it? A door. Well, sort of: a wood panel, just big enough for a person, with a clock face carved in the center. No hands. No numbers. Just a lonely little hole, begging for a key.
Ishaan’s heart was thumping now. A secret room. But how the hell to get in?
He barely had time to think before he heard footsteps outside. Shadows slid past the window. He shoved the notebook in his pocket, grabbed his flashlight, ducked behind the counter.
Bell over the door went off, soft and innocent.
In walked a woman. Trench coat, dark green, hair pulled back tight. Umbrella in one hand, leather case in the other.
Ishaan straightened up, playing it cool. “Shop’s closed,” he said. Like that ever stopped anybody.
She didn’t even blink. “You’re not Narayan.”
“Guess not. And you are?”
She ignored that, stepped up and popped open the case. Ishaan sucked in his breath.
Inside: six red watches. Identical. All ticking in perfect, creepy harmony.
She locked eyes with him. No smile, no nothing. Just:
> “Has the old man shown you the door yet?”
Yeah, tonight just got a whole lot weirder.
- Writer
