The Box of Time: Is Time Watching Us?

A Strange Beginning

It was 3:00 AM.

The world was asleep, but Aryan stood wide awake in front of a crumbling old clock shop on Eastwood Street. The air was thick with fog, and each breath he took felt borrowed.

In his trembling hand was a small metal box—aged, cold, and scarred like it had traveled centuries.

Three eerie words were carved onto its lid: “Time is Listening.”

For the past three days, Aryan had been haunted by a voice—a whisper that came not from outside, but from within.

“You’re lost within the wrong time…”

He hadn’t told anyone. How could he? Even he didn’t know what it meant. But tonight, his feet had brought him here.

He reached for the rusty doorknob of the shop.

And it opened on its own.

The Shadow in the Dream

Aryan had been dreaming the same thing for three nights.

A dark figure wrapped in shadows stood before him. No face. Just presence.

“Go to the clock shop,” it whispered.

“Time is listening to you.”

It felt less like a dream and more like a memory.

That was why he’d come.

Inside the shop, hundreds of clocks ticked in eerie harmony—grandfather clocks, wristwatches, cuckoo clocks—all frozen in their own eras, yet ticking as one. The air pulsed, like the heartbeat of time itself.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the mechanical symphony.

“Did you come to reverse time… or rewrite it?”

Startled, Aryan turned.

An old man stood among the shadows.

He wore thick round glasses, and his eyes glowed like they had seen too many timelines.

“I am the Gatekeeper of Time,” the man said slowly.

“And you… you are a Clock walker—someone whose soul slips between timelines.”

The Box of Echoes

“I opened this box,” Aryan stammered, holding it out. “And everything started falling apart. My memories... my sense of time… even my reflection changes in mirrors.”

The Gatekeeper took the box with trembling fingers.

He examined the markings, his face slowly draining of color.

“You’ve opened more than a box,” he said.

“This is a Time-Gate. A cursed one. It doesn’t just reveal time—it bends it. Twists it.”

Aryan’s heart raced.

“So… what now? Can I fix it?”

The man’s expression grew grave.

“Maybe. But not without consequence.”

Without another word, he guided Aryan through a hidden passage behind the shop’s shelves.

Inside was a room that defied logic—its walls lined with glowing timeline maps, moving and rearranging like living things. Threads of light represented lives, moments, and possibilities.

“You’re stuck in a dual timeline,” the Gatekeeper explained.

“One where you were born in 2001.

And another… where you were on a train in 1972… falling in love with a girl named Laila.”

Aryan’s breath caught.

“I remember her,” he whispered. “I feel like I’ve known her forever… but I can’t place where.”

“Because she belongs to a timeline that might not be yours,” the Gatekeeper said.

“You must choose. One timeline will survive. The other… will vanish. Maybe her. Maybe you.”

The Final Choice

The room dimmed as the Gatekeeper placed the box before Aryan again.

“This time, don’t just open it,” he said.

“Feel.

Time listens not to logic… but emotion.”

Aryan closed his eyes.

He thought of Laila.

Her eyes that held entire galaxies. Her voice like a song half-remembered. The way her fingers touched his as they watched the countryside pass through the train window.

“I want to see her…” he whispered.

“Just once more.”

The box vibrated.

Then—

A flash of light.

The world shook.

The Return

Aryan opened his eyes to find himself back on the train.

The smell of coal and the chatter of travelers filled the air. Outside, the countryside rolled by in sepia tones.

Laila sat across from him.

Smiling. Real.

“You’re… here,” Aryan breathed.

She reached across the table and took his hand.

“Time knows everything,” she said gently.

“You just had to listen.”

Final Thought: Who Controls Time—Us or Itself?

Did Aryan truly return?

Or did the box craft an illusion so perfect, he could no longer tell the difference?

Maybe he never left.

Maybe the past is a loop that keeps whispering back to those who listen closely.

And somewhere, in an old clock shop, the box still waits.

Still whispering…

“Time is Listening.”

Written by "Mohammad Helal"