The Timekeeper’s Last Message



In the towering, neon-soaked city of Zareenabad, where hover-cars zipped between sky-bridges and digital billboards painted the night with electric colors, lived a quiet mechanic named Arib Khan. His workshop was small, buried between high-tech repair shops and drone-delivery terminals, but Arib didn’t mind. He liked small spaces. They made the world feel manageable — predictable.

What wasn’t predictable, however, was the strange pocket watch he found two years ago inside a box of scrap brought in by a street vendor. The watch was old, heavy, and carved with symbols from no language Arib recognized. Most curious was the strange golden button hidden under its backplate. When Arib accidentally pressed it that first time, his entire world froze.

The humming cars, the blinking lights, the rushing crowds — everything held its breath.

Raindrops paused midair like glittering beads of glass. The wind stopped. Even the digital clocks on the billboards stopped ticking.

Time had broken.

And with one more press of the button, the world resumed as though nothing had happened.

Since that moment, Arib guarded the watch carefully. He used it rarely — only to prevent accidents or help those in need. A child about to step into the street. A woman on a bike about to hit a fallen crate. A vendor losing his balance. Arib would freeze the world for seconds, make small corrections, and disappear into the crowd before time continued.

He never used the watch for money or fame. He told no one. But deep in his heart, he sensed the watch had a history — and a purpose — far bigger than him.

That truth arrived one foggy evening.

As Arib closed his workshop, rolling down the metal shutter, he felt a presence behind him. He turned and saw an elderly woman dressed in flowing silver robes. Her hair was white as moonlight, her skin faintly glowing, and her violet eyes shimmered with a depth that made Arib’s breath catch.

“You’ve carried the Timekeeper’s watch longer than expected,” she said softly.

Arib instinctively stepped back.

“Who are you?”

“I am Nimra, Guardian of the Fourth Continuum,” she