I open my eyes and stretch all four of my limbs. I blink several times before rubbing my eyes.


    I look straight ahead and see the ceiling. There are some holes along the edges, and the paint is peeling due to moisture. I feel the warm wind passing through the window. It’s hot.


    That makes sense. After all, today is Luxenor 3rd, 1874—a Friday. The days are scorching, and at night, it pours.


    The Imperial Calendar consists of ten months, each with 36 days, structured according to the Emperor’s decree during the Third Epoch. That’s what we were taught in school.


    I remember once seeing an old calendar among my father’s belongings. It was different. The numbers didn’t match. There was something strange about how the months were organized, but back then, I didn’t think much of it.


    It was probably a printing error.


    I climb down from my bunk and look out the window. It was already daytime. Every morning, I wake up before my alarm. "It must be around seven. Paul has probably already left. He’ll be back by three, most likely."


    I glance at my father’s watch. "I swear the hand moved slightly… hmm, I’m probably imagining it."


    I look at my father’s watch again. It’s a normal timepiece, but quite stubborn—dark blue strap, hands with white tips and a light blue body. The glass has a visible crack on the left side. The lugs are intact.


    And this damned thing still shows 11:59.


    It has for a long time.


    My father, the only son of the Veyne family, was known to everyone as Roman Veyne. I never met my grandparents. Not that I was interested, nor that my father ever opened up about them. He was a man of few words. Some described him as kind to the weak, ruthless to the powerful.


    Not that he was powerful himself.


    Though, in truth, I don’t know much about his past. My knowledge begins from the moment he crossed paths with my mother.


    Unlike him, my mother—Selene Aldrose—was a different kind of woman. She was what you’d call a fighter, unyielding in her beliefs, never one to back down. She had a different way of thinking.


    I suppose that’s why I think the way I do.


    I take after her, after all.


    What am I thinking?


    I should have breakfast and get ready to head out.


    Ethan rubs the watch’s glass and sets it on his desk.


    I prepare a simple breakfast—bread and some watery coffee. As a special treat, the other day, Miss Brown gave me a small can of tuna as a gift. I’ll spread it on the bread to make it less miserable.


    After eating, I head to my room to grab my brown jacket and my watch.


    "A blue watch. These models have gone out of style nowadays. It has no brand, so I suppose it was custom-made for my father. But there’s something engraved on the top—‘Watch of N…’ The watch is old. No surprise the engraving has faded. It doesn’t even have my siblings’ or mother’s initials. Maybe it was meant for a client but was never delivered."


    With everything ready, I grab a few shillings from the box above the wardrobe and head out for errands.


    Streets of the Southern District


    As I step outside, I hear Gordon arguing with the tenants.


    I don’t blame him. I owe a week’s rent.


    Some people here owe years worth of payments.


    Poor Gordon.


    Not that I feel real empathy.


    But it would hurt to own a business and have no one respect it.


    Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have an intimidating presence or instills no fear in others.


    May the Goddess Athiriel be with him.


    Stepping through the doorway, I enter Veymont Street.


    I glance around—the people crossing the sidewalks, children playing with small marbles, a bard singing at the end of the street, shops opening for the day.


    "Looks like the butcher hasn’t opened yet."


    I head toward Solmire Street.


    Ironic that a street named after such a respected general is in this condition.


    I see people dressed in all sorts of attire—some in factory uniforms, others in suits, some in loose-fitting clothes, and a few wearing elegant designs like proper gentlemen.


    How much did a suit cost? About 15 shillings.


    Rent was 10 shillings.


    And yesterday’s umbrella cost 2 shillings—though that was an anomaly.


    One day, I’ll have one like those men.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    I follow the street and spot the vegetable stand.


    I approach and greet Miss Claus.


    "Hello, everything good, Ethan?"


    "What do you consider ‘good,’ Miss Claus?"


    "You and your questions. It’s just a greeting, Ethan."


    "I know. I’m just a bit annoyed… how much for potatoes, carrots, sweet potatoes, onions, and greens?"


    "The usual, right? Two potatoes, one carrot, half a sweet potato, one onion, and some greens. That’ll be seven pence, Ethan."


    "Strange. Prices haven’t gone up? I thought inflation was getting worse."


    "Since His Lordship arrived, the economy has been stabilizing."


    Hmm. She’s not wrong. But maybe…


    "Here’s your payment, Miss Claus. I’ll head home and get ready for work."


    "Take care, Ethan. And remember, your face is hard to read for strangers, but for those who know you, you’re an open book. I’d suggest working on that."


    "…"


    I didn’t think I was that easy to read.


    I’ll have to work on that.


    "I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Claus."


    I make my way back to the apartment.


    Along the way, I hear the bard and listen closely.


    "The Emperor Traed’s March."


    I thought it was banned.


    Hmm.


    I step into the apartment to drop off the groceries and leave a note—sloppily written:


    <hr>


    "Paul, I’ll be back by 5 at the latest.


    Remember to buy meat. The butcher hasn’t opened yet.


    If you can, try to cut down your hours. Don’t work double shifts.


    You’re not alone, idiot.


    With absolutely no affection,


    Ethan."


    <hr>


    The Imperial Tower


    I step outside and look up.


    The Imperial Tower and its massive clock have been there for as long as I can remember.


    Its hands never stop, as if marking the rhythm of the Empire itself.


    I don’t know who built it.


    I only know that, somehow, its presence has always unsettled me.


    "It’s 7:30."


    The morning heat was already settling in, clinging to the skin like invisible sweat.


    If the clouds didn’t roll in, today would be one of those days where the asphalt felt like it was melting under your feet.


    I sometimes wonder—if that clock were to stop one day, if the Empire’s time ceased to move forward…


    Would we keep moving?


    Or would we freeze alongside it?


    I head to Bracquemont Street, three blocks past Solmire Street before turning right.


    The shops here have more personality.


    "Money reigns here, hmm."


    Damn money.


    I always think it should all go to hell, but… would that mean I go to hell too?


    Upon reaching Bracquemont, I see rows of struggling artisan and specialty shops.


    Among them, one stands out—Nararte Watchmaking.


    A name chosen by my father and his friend, German.


    He took us in when my father died.


    A man in the last stage of his life.


    He has a son—Smith.


    I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard things about him from his father.


    I approach the shop.


    I approach and see the shop from the front—a place with night-white walls, covered in doodles and drawings we all made together.


    I remember the main clock was drawn by Emma, while Paul’s and my “drawings” are off to the side, almost erased by now.


    "A fine masterpiece."


    A sigh escapes.


    I step inside, and the bell tied to the door jingles.


    "German, I came to do my hours."


    "Oh, my boy, Ethan, listen—you have two jobs today. One is for Mr. William, the clothing shop owner. His watch broke. And then… we have a special case."


    "A special case?"


    "A military man brought his watch here."


    "Why would someone from that sector come here?"


    "He came asking for Román. Said someone recommended him. I suppose the news didn’t spread enough, or not many knew Román."


    "Alright, I’ll handle it."


    I glance at my workbench, my tools, and a note from Paul—suggesting I should set the clocks to run counterclockwise sometime just to see people’s reactions.


    I’ve never done it.


    But every now and then, the thought makes me chuckle.


    I take out the two watches from the box and start with the easier one—Mr. William’s.


    That man has an annoying habit of fiddling with the crown until the mainspring comes loose.


    Yeah, some things never change.


    I reset the spring and prepare a short note for him.


    <hr>


    "Mr. William, this is Ethan.


    I recommend you avoid constantly


    changing the watch’s direction.


    It’s fine—it shouldn’t break.


    Trust it for once.


    Sincerely,


    Assistant Ethan."


    <hr>


    Now, the other one.


    A silver watch with red accents.


    There’s an inscription engraved along the bezel:


    "Do not disappoint our beloved nation."


    "How charming."


    Alright, let’s see what’s wrong.


    Hmm, seems like a problem with the hands—they’ve loosened slightly.


    I’ll tighten them and replace a lug.


    Odd…


    The numbers from 9 to 12 are completely worn off.


    Strange.


    I close the watch, finishing my work, and turn to ask German what else needs to be done—


    When I hear a shout.


    I rush over and see German on the floor.


    He fell from the ladder.


    "German, I’ve told you a thousand times—stop climbing up to get things! What’s the point of having an assistant if you never use him?"


    "Relax, Ethan. Do you know the hardest part of getting old? When someone else has to do the things you used to do without thinking."


    "..."


    "Ethan, it’s time you found yourself a real job. You have a degree. There aren’t many mechanical engineers around, and I don’t want the only one I know to die as a watchmaker."


    "But—"


    "Ethan, take your pay. Here’s a small advance on your salary. Open this when you’re alone. And… I’m selling the shop."


    "Because your son won’t take over?"


    "No. Smith is an adult. He has his own life. He doesn’t have to follow my steps and die in this place. And I don’t want that for you either, Ethan."


    I look at my workbench.


    A frown settles on my face as I turn toward German.


    Before stepping out, I take a deep breath and say:


    "German, I want you to know… you are a father to me. You’ve been there for me since I was little."


    "Thank you, Ethan. And remember—your father wasn’t absent because he didn’t want to be with you. He did it for your sake.


    He always talked about you—when you were born, when you took your first steps, when you spoke your first words.


    You were his pride."


    "Goodbye, German. Goodbye… may Lysveria watch over you."


    A Wolrd that no loger feels the same


    The air outside feels thick.


    As if the entire world had changed in the last few minutes—yet no one else had noticed but me.


    I look at the plaza.


    The children are still playing.


    The clown is still performing.


    The Clock Tower is still standing, unmoving.


    But something in me is no longer the same.


    When I leave the shop, it’s already 8:30.


    "..."


    I walk toward the South District Plaza and watch the people—the children, the clowns, the Clock Tower.


    I feel like it’s watching me.


    What will become of my life now?


    I have no job.


    Am I supposed to work as a mechanical engineer for the Empire?


    That would mean helping a dictatorship.


    What am I supposed to do?


    The bag in my hands feels heavier than it should.


    My fingers tremble slightly as I try to open it.


    And then—


    TICK.


    …?


    The watch is marking 12:00.