"The Clock That Ticked Backward"

A short story by Umar Ali

Most clocks move forward — marking time, second by second, toward an uncertain future.

But in the quiet town of Merlow, inside a dusty antique shop at the edge of Baker Street, there was a clock that ticked backward.

And it was never for sale.

I first saw it when I was 12, standing in the shop window like it didn’t belong in this world. The hands moved in reverse — seconds, minutes, even the hour hand. It never stopped, never wavered, and never told the right time.

Old Mr. Whitmore, the shop’s owner, caught me staring.

“You don’t want that one,” he said softly. “Some timepieces tell time. That one… remembers it.”

I didn’t understand then, but I would — years later, when my life fell apart.

I returned to Merlow after 15 years, broken and lost.

My wife had died suddenly in a car accident. One moment she was calling me to bring home milk. The next, I was identifying her body in a hospital morgue.

I was drowning in guilt.

We had argued that morning — over something silly, something small. I never got to say sorry. Never got to tell her how much she meant to me.

The grief was unbearable.

I left everything — my job, our apartment, our friends — and came back to Merlow, the place where time moved slower, where memories didn’t hurt as much.

That’s when I saw the shop again. And the clock was still there.

Still ticking backward.

Inside, it was exactly how I remembered: old wooden shelves, brass compasses, dusty typewriters, faded globes. And there, behind the counter, stood Mr. Whitmore — older, thinner, but eyes still sharp.

“You came back,” he said, as if he’d been expecting me.

I nodded. My voice failed me.

“Still thinking about the backward clock?”

“I need it,” I said.

He stared at me for a long time, then walked slowly to the glass case and took out a small brass key.

“You don’t buy this clock,” he said. “You ask for it. But once you do, time may never be the same.”

I didn’t care. I just wanted one more moment with her.

That night, in my childhood bedroom, I wound the clock with trembling hands.

It ticked backward, soft and steady.

As the minutes rolled in reverse, I felt the air shift. The room dimmed. The photos on the walls became younger. My face in the mirror looked different — less tired, less grey.

I turned around — and the calendar on the wall now said: April 12th.

The day she died.

I raced outside.

Everything looked the same — but different. My neighbor’s kid, who had braces last year, now had baby teeth. The coffee shop was still called Brew Barn, not The Java Stop. And when I called our apartment… she answered.

Her voice.

Alive. Laughing. Breathing.

I couldn’t speak. I hung up, heart pounding, tears streaming down my face.

I had gone back.

I found her in the park that afternoon. Sitting on the bench where we had our first date. She wore the red scarf I gave her for her birthday.

She saw me and smiled. “Took you long enough.”

I sat beside her and held her hand, gripping it like it might disappear. “I love you,” I whispered.

She tilted her head. “Where did that come from?”

“I just… need to say it. Every day. No matter what.”

She smiled, leaning into me.

And for the next few hours, I lived like it was the last day.

Because I knew… it was.

When the sun began to set, I walked her home. I made sure she stayed off the road, kept her keys, made her promise not to go out again.

But fate has its own map.

I returned to the shop, desperate.

“I need more time,” I begged Mr. Whitmore.

But the shop was empty.

The shelves gone. Dust thicker. The air colder.

I turned to the clock.

It was gone.

I woke the next morning back in my old apartment — in the present.

Alone.

But something was different.

There, on my nightstand, was a note in familiar handwriting.

“You found a way to love me better — even if it was only for a day. That was enough. Live now. Forgive yourself. I already have.”

— Emma

💔 The End… or the Beginning?

Some clocks tick forward. Some backward.

But the only time that matters… is now.