I Bought a Clock That Ticks Backward

It started with a garage sale.

Not one of those friendly, lemonade-stand affairs. This one was run by an old man with clouded eyes, leaning against a porch that looked like it had seen the Great Depression twice.

I wasn’t looking for anything. Just passing time on a Saturday. But then I saw the clock.

It was brass, beautifully tarnished, with Roman numerals etched into its glass face. The hands were long and thin, delicate like bones. It sat alone on a table, ticking steadily in reverse.

“Antique?” I asked, running a finger along its smooth surface.

The old man didn’t answer. He just nodded once.

“How much?”

He paused. “You can take it. But once it’s wound, it stays wound.”

I chuckled awkwardly. “So… no refunds?”

He stared through me. “You’ll see.”

Back at my apartment, I placed the clock on my desk and wound it out of habit. The moment I did, something shifted.

The air felt heavier. The shadows deeper.

Still, it ticked—backward. Each second rewinding time’s melody, like a film being played in reverse.

At first, it was amusing. I set it next to my laptop, just to see how long I could stare at something that made no logical sense.

But then things got... strange.

The first real sign came the next morning.

My phone alarm didn’t go off. In fact, my phone had no signal. No missed calls. No texts. I could’ve sworn I'd been messaging friends last night, but my entire message history was gone.

Worse, my laptop calendar said it was yesterday.

I shrugged it off—maybe a system glitch. Maybe I’d overworked myself.

But it happened again.

And again.

Days began repeating.

At first, it was subtle. I’d pass by a flower shop and smell the same mix of roses and lilacs. The same car would stall at the corner. The same woman would drop her coffee and curse under her breath.

Then it got louder.

I started having the same conversations. My fridge refilled with groceries I remembered eating. An old injury on my ankle healed—then returned. Healed. Then returned.

And every time I tried to move the clock, to stop it, it grew colder to the touch. On the fourth attempt, it burned my fingers.

That night, I dreamed of the old man.

“You wound it,” he whispered, standing in the corner of my bedroom, half-shadow. “Now it winds you.”

I don’t know how long I’ve been stuck.

It could be weeks. Could be months. Time has folded in on itself like a looping ribbon. Every time I wake, the clock ticks backward, second by second. Sometimes I make it three days before it resets. Sometimes only one.

I’ve tried everything.

Smashing it? It reforms. Fire? It doesn’t burn. Selling it? The next morning, it’s back on my desk, ticking like it never left.

I tried mailing it to a friend across the country. I got a package the next day—with no return address—and inside was the same clock, ticking merrily backward.

I even tried destroying myself once. But when I woke up the next morning, I was fine. Like none of it had happened. Like I was a file being copied over and over again.

Now, I write notes to myself.

I fill journals, trying to document what I’ve learned, what I’ve forgotten. Most of them disappear after resets, but a few stay. Why those ones do, I don’t know. Maybe the clock lets them through.

Maybe it’s playing with me.

I’ve stopped seeing other people. What’s the point? They won’t remember me tomorrow.

But sometimes—just sometimes—I think I see someone else in the loop. A woman in a green scarf. She always looks like she knows something. Like she recognizes me. But when I try to talk to her, she vanishes around the corner or fades into the crowd like fog.

Maybe she bought a clock too.

Maybe time won’t let her go either.

If you ever see one—

A clock that ticks backward.

Don’t wind it.

Don’t touch it.

Don’t even look too long.

Because once time notices you…

it never looks away.