The Clock That Stole Time

The clock arrived in a box with no return address.

Jonathan found it on his doorstep one rainy morning, wrapped in wax paper, sealed with a brittle red ribbon. No note. No explanation. Just an antique brass mantel clock with black Roman numerals and fine golden hands that trembled faintly, even when untouched.

He almost threw it away.

Almost.

But something about the craftsmanship—the delicate, spiderweb cracks across the face, the way it ticked without being wound—kept him staring. It felt... alive. Like it knew it had finally found him.

He brought it inside.

For the first few days, the clock simply sat on the mantel. It ticked steadily, never too fast, never slow. Jonathan didn’t remember winding it, yet it never stopped. He told himself it was just momentum. Or maybe the mechanism was hidden, self-powered.

But then the days began to blur.

He missed a meeting. Then two. He’d wake thinking it was Thursday, only to find out it was Monday again. His calendar filled with crossed-out plans, forgotten errands. Entire evenings vanished. He’d sit down to read and blink, only to find the sun setting. Food would grow cold on the table. Phone calls missed. Friends unanswered.

He thought he was tired. Overworked. Maybe depressed.

But the clock ticked on.

One night, unable to sleep, Jonathan sat across from the clock and watched it.

Its second hand moved in slow, careful steps.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He blinked—and suddenly it was morning.

The book he’d been holding had fallen from his lap. The lamp had burned out. The coffee beside him was ice cold. But he had no memory of sleep. No dreams. No movement. Just the sound—

Tick.

The next day, he unplugged it. Just to test.

It kept ticking.

He searched for answers.

He brought the clock to a local antique shop, but the woman behind the counter stepped back the moment she saw it.

“Where did you get that?”

“It was on my doorstep,” Jonathan replied.

She hesitated. “You should get rid of it. Immediately.”

“Why?”

“Because clocks aren’t supposed to take from people.”

He laughed awkwardly. “It’s just a broken old timepiece.”

She didn’t laugh. “You won’t notice what it’s stolen. Not until it’s too late.”

Back home, he wrapped it in towels and shoved it in a box.

That night, he still heard it ticking.

He moved it to the garage.

Still ticking.

Finally, he drove it miles away, threw it in the river, and came home shaking with relief.

For the first time in weeks, he slept through the night.

But time didn’t come back.

The days were still hollow. His memories—fuzzy. The grocery list he’d written the day before was in his own handwriting, but he couldn’t remember writing it. He looked in the mirror and saw faint lines on his face he swore weren’t there yesterday.

A voicemail from his sister made him pause:

“You haven’t called in over a month, Jon. Are you okay?”

It hadn’t felt like a month.

He checked the date.

It was a month.

A week later, the clock was back on his mantel.

Wet. Cracked further. But ticking.

He hadn’t brought it home. No one else could have. But there it was, as if it had never left. Its hands pointed to 3:33, a time that felt like it had been burned into the back of his eyelids.

He screamed. Threw it to the ground.

The glass shattered.

But the clock didn’t stop.

If anything, it ticked louder.

Desperate, he tore open the back.

Inside was no mechanism.

No gears. No weights. Just black velvet lining and a single piece of parchment.

A name written in ink.

Jonathan Elijah Moore.

His full name. His handwriting.

And beneath it:

Debt paid in moments. Charged by minutes. Owned by hours.

He stepped back.

And then he saw them.

Photographs—strewn across the floor. Dozens of them, pouring from the shattered casing. Him, in different stages of life. Childhood. Adolescence. A birthday he barely remembered. His first kiss. A graduation. Moments he didn’t even recall living.

The clock hadn’t taken time from the day.

It had taken it from him.

He stopped sleeping.

He tried to outpace the ticking. Headphones. White noise. Pills.

But the ticking was inside him now. Every time he blinked, something was gone. A name. A smell. A face.

He forgot his mother’s birthday. Then her name.

Then his own.

He sold his house.

He left the city.

He moved to a cabin near the coast, where the waves could drown out the sound, if only for a while. He stopped checking calendars. Burned the clock. Or tried to.

It always came back.

Now, it sits in the corner of the room. Quiet most days. Loud on others. On those days, he loses hours. Whole conversations disappear. He writes himself notes. Labels drawers. Starts over each morning.

The clock ticks patiently.

Jonathan is an old man now.

Or maybe he isn’t.

He can’t tell anymore. Mirrors mean nothing.

But he remembers this:

He wasn’t the first.

And he won’t be the last.

The clock always finds someone.

Because time doesn’t need your permission.

It only needs your attention.

Just one glance.

Just one tick.