The Unwinding Hour

Sarah found the grandfather clock more of an obstacle than an antique, its dark, brooding presence a permanent fixture in their too-small living room. It was Mark’s inheritance, a hulking oak beast that had swallowed up half the light from the bay window for twenty years, chiming with an irritating, slightly off-key bong every quarter hour. Or, it used to. For the last five years, it had stood silent, a mausoleum for time, its hands frozen at a permanent 3:47. She’d stopped noticing it, really. It was just part of the furniture, like the stain on the rug under Mark’s favorite armchair, or the way he always left his coffee cup by the sink instead of in it.

Then, one Tuesday morning, she went to pour herself another cup, the usual tired ritual of lukewarm instant, and something pricked at her peripheral vision. Not a sound, not a glint, just… a feeling. She looked up. The clock’s hands, those same hands that had been stuck at 3:47 for so long, were now at 3:46. Her breath caught, a small, ridiculous hitch in her throat. She blinked. Stared harder. No, that wasn’t right. It had to be 3:47. Always 3:47. She walked closer, a cautious, almost disbelieving shuffle. The minute hand, with a tiny, almost imperceptible jerk, slid back to the 45-minute mark. 3:45. It was ticking backwards.

Mark found her there, rigid, a forgotten coffee cup growing cold in her hand. His own eyes, still gummy from sleep, followed her gaze. A slow grin spread across his face, not a big, happy grin, but a curious, almost childlike one. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he mumbled, scratching at his beard. “It’s working. It’s actually working.”

“Working? Mark, it’s broken. It’s going backwards. That’s not working,” she snapped, the absurdity of it hitting her, a new layer of friction in a life already sandpapered raw. “It’s broken like everything else you touch. Like the faucet, like the light in the pantry, like –” She stopped herself, the familiar path of accusation too easy, too worn.

He ignored her, kneeling by the old clock’s ornate base, his fingers tracing the carved wood. “No, no, look, Sarah. This is… something. It’s unique. Never seen anything like it.” He was genuinely fascinated, and that, more than anything, annoyed her. He could get lost in some peculiar thing while the real things, the broken things, piled up around them, unseen, unfelt.

The clock continued its reverse march through the day. By dinner, it was approaching 10 PM. Sarah kept glancing at it, a knot tightening in her stomach. “It’s creepy, Mark,” she said, pushing her mashed potatoes around her plate. “It’s like… it’s trying to un-happen things.”

“Or re-happen them,” he countered, a strange light in his eyes. “Imagine. What were we doing at ten o’clock on a Tuesday, five years ago?” His question hung in the air, a faint, almost forgotten scent. Five years ago. A Tuesday. She couldn’t remember. Not a damn thing. It was just another Tuesday. Another blur in the long stretch of Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays that made up their life.

The days blurred into weeks, the clock a relentless, silent counter-current. It ticked through their arguments, the ones about money, about his mother, about her sister, about the way he never listened, the way she always nagged. It ticked past the quiet dinners, the separate couches, the unspoken resentments that felt heavier than bricks. Mark would sit and watch it sometimes, nursing a beer, a faint smile playing on his lips. She’d catch him, and the smile would vanish, replaced by a kind of vague wistfulness.

One morning, she came down to find the clock’s hands nearing 7:00 AM, but not today’s 7:00 AM. This was a 7:00 AM from maybe fifteen years ago. She paused, her hand on the cold porcelain of the coffee mug. She remembered that time. They’d just bought the house. Still had that cheap, plastic toaster they’d gotten as a wedding gift. Mark used to sing terrible pop songs while he made breakfast, off-key and loud. She’d hated it then, hated waking up to his caterwauling, but now, a strange ache bloomed in her chest.

“It’s almost there,” Mark said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, from the doorway. He was holding a worn photo album. “The day we met. Or close enough.” He didn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on the clock. It was nearing 2:15 PM, a Saturday, nineteen years ago. The time they’d first talked, bumped into each other at that crappy art fair down by the river. She remembered the sunlight, the smell of roasted nuts, his awkward, endearing stammer when he’d apologized for spilling his cheap beer on her new sandals.

The clock kept ticking. 2:14. 2:13. She felt a phantom tug in her gut, a ghost of a feeling she hadn’t felt in years, maybe decades. Her new sandals. The bright yellow ones. She’d actually liked him then, really liked him. All the rough edges were still smooth, un-scraped. He turned, finally, the photo album held loosely in his hands. His eyes, for the first time in what felt like forever, met hers. The clock chimed, a soft, almost mournful bong. 2:12 PM.