The Time Still

Evelyn Hart sat alone in her MIT lab, the hum of the Chrono-Stasis Device filling the silence. It was a small, silver box, unremarkable except for the impossible thing it could do: pause time. At 42, Evelyn had poured a decade into this machine, driven by a memory that never left her—her father’s heart attack, the ambulance too slow, the seconds slipping away. If she could stop time, she could stop that kind of pain. Tonight, she’d test it on herself, no longer content with petri dishes and plants.

The lab was a mess of coffee cups and scribbled notes, a mirror reflecting her tired eyes and greying hair. She wasn’t old, but the late nights and endless equations had worn her down. The CSD worked by creating a temporal bubble, freezing everything inside it. Her tests showed it drained organic matter nearby—bacteria turned to dust, leaves withered. She suspected it would take something from her, too, but the chance to rewrite moments like her father’s death made it worth the risk.

She set the timer for five seconds and stood in the lab’s center. Her heart pounded as she pressed the button. A low hum vibrated through her, and a blue light wrapped around her. The world stopped. A moth hung in mid-air, wings motionless. The clock read 11:47:32, unmoving. Evelyn’s breath felt heavy, like the air itself was solid. She counted silently—one, two, three, four, five—and the hum returned. Time snapped back. The moth fluttered, the clock ticked forward.

Evelyn laughed, a shaky, giddy sound, but dizziness hit her like a wave. She gripped a table, her reflection showing a new streak of white in her hair. Her hands looked thinner, almost frail. The machine had taken something—maybe a piece of her vitality. She sank into a chair, her mind racing. It worked, but at what cost?

Over the next week, Evelyn tested the CSD in short bursts. One second aged her skin slightly, two left her exhausted, five caused a nosebleed that stained her lab coat. She estimated each second of paused time stole a day of her health. She hid the symptoms, driven by the thought of surgeons saving lives with infinite time or rescue teams moving through frozen disasters. But doubt crept in—could she keep paying this price?

Priya, her assistant, noticed first. At 25, Priya was sharp and kind, the only person Evelyn trusted in the lab. They’d bonded over late-night takeout, Priya teasing Evelyn about her terrible taste in pizza. One evening, Priya stormed in, holding a printout of the CSD’s energy readings. “Evelyn, this isn’t just affecting samples. It’s hurting you.”

Evelyn’s stomach dropped. She’d been sloppy, leaving data where Priya’s keen eyes could find it. “It’s manageable,” she said, avoiding Priya’s gaze. “This could change the world.”

Priya stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. “You’re not sleeping. Your hands shake. You look… older.” She paused, her eyes searching Evelyn’s. “I know why you’re doing this. You told me about your dad. But this isn’t the way.”

Evelyn turned away, staring at the CSD. Priya’s words hit too close. She’d buried her grief in work, but the machine wasn’t just a tool—it was her way of fighting time itself. Yet Priya’s concern felt like a tether, pulling her back to the present.

That night, Evelyn ran one last test. Ten seconds. The blue light enveloped her, and the world froze again. She walked to the lab’s window, a raindrop suspended outside, glinting like a tiny jewel. In that stillness, she thought of her father’s smile, Priya’s laughter, the life she’d neglected. The moment was beautiful, but it wasn’t enough.

When time resumed, Evelyn collapsed. Her vision blurred, her chest tight. Priya found her, her voice trembling as she called for help. When Evelyn woke, Priya was there, her face pale. The mirror showed Evelyn’s hair almost entirely white, her cheeks hollow. “You’re done with this,” Priya said, not a question.

Evelyn nodded, tears stinging her eyes. The next day, she dismantled the CSD, smashing its circuits and shredding her notes. Priya stood by, her silence a quiet support. “You’re enough without it,” Priya said, squeezing her hand.

Evelyn walked out of the lab, rain falling steadily outside. She’d chased a way to stop time, but it had cost her pieces of herself. Priya’s friendship, her father’s memory—these were what grounded her. Time moved on, relentless, but so would she, one human moment at a time.