Chapter 5: The Red Watch
504 Words
Ishaan just stared at the red watch next to Ravi Nath’s, well—dead body. The thing’s tick didn’t sound right. Offbeat. Like it didn’t even care about seconds or regular time or any of that.
He reached out for it. Froze. Then, whatever, he grabbed it.
Way heavier than it looked. Warm, too, which, uh, gross? And the face—no numbers, just this nasty red s***h spinning around like it was drunk or lost or both.
Then boom—the ticking just cut out, like someone yanked the batteries.
And suddenly, this freezing gust whipped past him, sharp enough to sting.
Somewhere, back in the Hour Room, every single mirror exploded. One after another.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
He bolted for the hallway, red lights flickering, voices muttering in the walls, back toward the main room—except, yeah, not empty anymore.
Someone stood at the table.
Back to him.
Big guy. Black suit. Didn’t even twitch.
Ishaan’s steps echoed (loud, awkward), but the dude? Nothing. Like a statue.
“Who are you?” Ishaan snapped, his voice basically bouncing off the walls.
The guy turned, slow as molasses.
No face.
Seriously—just a smooth, shiny clock face where a face should be.
And dead center of his chest: a watch jammed right into his skin, ticking away at 13:13, which, what even is that?
Then that weird voice again, except not out loud this time. In Ishaan’s head, like a bad hangover thought:
> “You’ve worn the mark.
You’ve touched time.
Now you are part of the loop.”
Ishaan stumbled back. “What loop?”
Faceless Suit Guy stuck out an arm, pointed right at the notebook Ishaan was clutching.
> “Read it. Page 47.”
Fingers fumbling (he could barely breathe), Ishaan found the page. Ravi’s handwriting—barely legible, words jagged and frantic:
> “The Hour Room is a gate.
The red watch is the key.
Time isn’t a line—it’s a spiral.
And we’ve been here before.”
Ishaan’s head shot up.
No one there. Guy was gone.
Upstairs, every clock in the shop started ticking again.
All of them—same time.
13:13.
Didn’t matter if they were busted, unplugged, or straight-up antiques. Every single one.
And get this: the pendulums? Swinging backward.
Whatever he’d done, something big just got set loose.
He burst out into the street. City was weirdly quiet. Cold in that way that gets in your bones.
A woman walked by—red watch on her wrist.
Then a guy. Some kid. Even a dude on a cycle. All rocking red watches.
Were they always there? Or was time just screwing with him now?
Was he seeing ghosts? Or was he the ghost?
Pulled out his phone, dialed Dastoor.
Busy.
Tried again.
Still busy.
Third time, someone picked up.
No voice.
Just… ticking.
Then, caught in the shop window, Ishaan saw his own wrist.
There it was.
The red watch, right where he swore he’d never wear it.
- Writer
