Chapter 3: The Man with No Time
715 Words
Ishaan’s hand hovered over his pocket, fingers itching against the lump of Narayan’s notebook. Trusting this woman? Not a chance. Too calm, too collected, and that stare—like she could see straight through the layers he kept hidden, right down to his bare, anxious bones.
He broke the silence first. “The old man’s missing,” he said, scanning her face for even a twitch. “You know something, don’t you?”
She didn’t bother with a reply. Just closed her little case of red watches—like she was tucking away secrets—and slid it out of sight, all slow and deliberate. She leaned in, voice barely more than a breath. “Then it’s already begun.”
Ishaan’s eyebrow shot up. “What’s begun?”
She made for the door, but right as she was about to leave, she turned back. “If you’ve got the map, you’ve already cracked the first lock. Watch your step, Detective. Not everyone’s stuck in the river of time—some folks, well, they know how to swim upstream.”
And just like that, she ghosted out.
Outside, rain had started up again, drumming the streets in that relentless Calcutta way. Ishaan watched from the window as she melted into the mist, her black umbrella wobbling under the lonely glow of a streetlamp.
“Bend time,” she’d said. What the hell did that mean? Was she one of them? Whoever “they” were.
He spun around, facing the wall where the so-called Silent Room was hiding. That clock engraving, still missing its hands, stared back at him—empty, accusing. If Narayan was alive, the truth lay behind that door.
He needed a key. And maybe a drink.
Next morning, Ishaan found himself driving through the gray drizzle to Ballygunge, hunting down a retired clockmaker: Mr. Dastoor—Narayan’s old pal from way back.
The guy lived above a music shop, surrounded by ghost notes and the kind of silence that comes from years of waiting. He opened his door squinting through thick glasses, bundled up in a shawl that had seen better days.
“Was expecting someone,” Dastoor said, barely glancing up. “Didn’t think it’d be you.”
Ishaan stepped inside, shaking off the rain. “You knew I’d show?”
Dastoor shrugged, already pouring tea. “Narayan left me a message months ago. Said if things got weird, I should expect a guy with cop shoes and eyes that haven’t slept in weeks.”
Ishaan snorted. “That about sums it up.”
Dastoor just nodded, then fished something out of a battered wooden box—a velvet pouch, handed over without ceremony.
Inside: a key. Except, honestly, calling it a key felt off. This thing was shaped like the hour hand from a clock. Thin. Sharp. Delicate.
And way too familiar.
“His shop’s got a hidden room,” Ishaan said, voice low. “Behind the cabinet.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dastoor replied, eyes cloudy. “We used to call it the Hour Room. Never saw inside. Narayan built it on his own. After his brother… well, after he disappeared.”
Ishaan blinked. “He had a brother?”
Dastoor looked like he’d swallowed something sour. Paused. Then, quietly: “Ravi. Gone forty years now. No trace. Narayan never stopped searching.”
“You think that room connects to all this?”
Dastoor looked away. “I think that room was built for time itself. But not in any way you or I get.”
Ishaan didn’t waste another minute. He shot back through the rain to the old clock shop, nerves jangling. The city looked half-drowned, puddles reflecting a world turned upside down.
He unlocked the door. Went straight to the cabinet. Moved it aside. Pulled out the weird clock-hand key.
It fit. Of course it fit.
Click.
The panel groaned open, creaking like it was exhaling after years of holding its breath.
Behind it: a staircase, winding and narrow, disappearing into the kind of black that eats light for breakfast.
A cold draft swept out. And weirdest of all? The shop’s usual chorus of ticking clocks—gone. Just dead silence.
Ishaan sucked in a shaky breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the dark.
- Writer
