The hour is late

The Hour Is Late

1

The clock on the wall ticked in perfect rhythm. Elliot Graves sat motionless in his armchair, his eyes fixed on the slender second hand as it carved the passing time. 10:37 PM.

He checked his watch— 10:37 PM.

The digital numbers on his phone— 10:37 PM.

For the past hour, he had done little else but watch time slip through his fingers. There was something he was waiting for. Something important. He couldn’t quite remember what, only that the thought of missing it left a cold pit in his stomach.

Outside, the city pulsed with life—distant laughter, muffled sirens, the low hum of traffic. But in his small apartment, time felt heavier, more solid, as though the air itself thickened with each passing second.

The waiting was unbearable.

His fingers traced the worn leather strap of his watch. He had always been punctual. Never late. But tonight, something gnawed at him.

Something was coming.

And it was getting closer.

2

The phone rang.

A shrill, piercing sound that shattered the silence. Elliot’s breath hitched as he reached for it, fingers unsteady.

He pressed the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Silence.

A crackle of static. Then— a faint breath.

“Who is this?” His voice came out hoarse, uncertain.

The line clicked dead.

Elliot exhaled sharply, his pulse hammering. He checked the caller ID— Unknown Number.

The unease in his chest tightened. He glanced at the time again. 10:42 PM.

Still waiting.

3

The walls of his apartment felt too close, the air too thick. He needed to move.

He stepped outside, the city greeting him with a gust of cold air. The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows that stretched unnaturally along the pavement.

As he walked, people turned to look at him. Too many people. Their gazes lingered a second too long. A man in a suit nodded at him, a knowing, almost pitying expression on his face.

Elliot quickened his pace. He didn’t know where he was going, but he felt an invisible force pulling him forward.

At the corner café, a barista smiled as he approached. “Long time no see, Mr. Graves.”

Elliot stopped cold.

“I—I don’t know you,” he said, his voice unsteady.

The barista chuckled. “Sure you do. You’ve been coming here for years.”

Elliot took a step back, his pulse racing. He had never been here before.

Had he?

The ticking of his watch grew louder.

4

Something was wrong.

The city felt warped—familiar yet foreign, like a dream just before waking. His reflection in a storefront window looked…off. Too pale. Eyes too hollow.

At a bus stop, a woman sat reading a newspaper. As Elliot passed, his eyes caught something that made his stomach drop.

October 12

Today.

Below the date, a name in the obituary section.

Elliot Graves, 48, passed away unexpectedly.

The world tilted. The sound of traffic faded into an indistinct hum. His breath came in short, panicked gasps.

No. No, that’s not possible.

But deep down, he knew.

The appointment. The waiting. The ticking clock.

It had all been leading to this.

5

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision.

He turned, his heart thudding against his ribs.

A man stood beneath a flickering streetlamp. Tall. Still. Dressed in an old-fashioned black suit. His hands were folded neatly in front of him. His expression was unreadable—neither cruel nor kind.

But Elliot knew him.

He had been waiting for him all night.

The man inclined his head. “You’re right on time.”

Elliot swallowed. His throat was dry. “I—I don’t understand.”

“You do,” the man said simply.

Elliot’s hands clenched into fists. “I can’t be dead. I feel—”

But then it hit him. He hadn’t eaten today. Hadn’t slept. Hadn’t truly felt anything but the weight of time pressing down on him.

Memories surged forward—an accident, bright lights, paramedics hovering over him. A voice saying, “Time of death...”

His stomach twisted. He looked down at his hands. They weren’t shaking anymore. They weren’t anything.

He exhaled slowly. “So, this is it.”

The man nodded. “This is it.”

The clock struck midnight.

6

Elliot didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. The fear that had clung to him all night melted away, leaving only a strange, quiet acceptance.

He took a step forward, then another, until he was walking beside the man, past the streetlamp, past the city that had already begun to forget him.

The world behind him blurred, fading into the distance.

Somewhere, far away, a clock resumed its steady ticking.

And then—nothing.

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