"The Time Reversal"

 

Thunder growled like a caged monster above London, as sheets of rain lashed against the tall windows of Zane Faulkner’s top-floor apartment. The city below disappeared behind foggy glass and endless storm. Inside, warm golden light flickered from the fireplace, casting restless shadows across the bookshelves and walls. It was close to midnight.

Zane stood at the window, watching the rain slide down like time itself melting away. He was in his early thirties, but the weight in his eyes belonged to someone older. He wore his signature long black overcoat, unbothered by the comfort of home.

Behind him, Eli shuffled in fuzzy socks, holding two mugs of steaming cocoa. "Normal people wear sweatpants and drink chamomile when it storms. Not stand like Sherlock Dracula and brood."

Zane turned, smiling lazily. "Chamomile is a betrayal of the senses. Cocoa is acceptable."

Eli handed him the mug. "I swear, if lightning strikes the building tonight, it’ll be your fault."

Zane sat down on the couch, kicking his boots off. "Relax. The storm’s good. Makes people forget things. Secrets come out."

Eli raised a brow. "That’s ominous."

Before Zane could reply, the buzzer buzzed. A sharp, urgent sound that cut through the apartment.

Zane didn’t move. He simply said, "Lyra."

Eli blinked. "How can you tell?"

"She always arrives mid-storm. Like a curse I’m growing fond of."

Moments later, Lyra stepped in, her trench coat soaked, hair plastered to her face. She looked like a painting in the rain.

"Why do I always look like a stray cat when I visit you two?" she snapped.

Zane grinned. "Because you don’t knock."

She ignored him and threw a folder onto the coffee table. "We have a case. An old manor in the countryside. The owner reports that their antique clock has been... ticking backwards."

Eli blinked. "That’s your urgent case? A broken clock?"

Lyra turned to him, serious. "Every night at exactly 2:13 a.m., it ticks backwards for one minute. And since it started, her husband has been losing memories. Rapidly."

Zane’s smirk faded. "Now that’s interesting."

The manor sat on the edge of Oxfordshire, nestled between ancient oaks and endless rain. The storm followed them like a curse, thunder rolling over the hills.

Inside, the air felt heavier, as if time refused to move.

Mrs. Ellison greeted them at the door—nervous, pale, and grateful.

"It started two weeks ago," she said, leading them through a maze of dusty halls. "At first we thought the clock was just malfunctioning. Then Peter—my husband—forgot our wedding date. Then our son’s name. Then... he looked at me like I was a stranger."

In the drawing room, the clock loomed. Seven feet tall, dark walnut wood, brass pendulum swinging with eerie silence. Roman numerals carved in gold. Elegant. Intimidating.

Zane walked slowly to it, running a hand over the polished surface.

"Has anyone tried to fix it?"

"No one’s touched it. It’s been in Peter’s family for generations."

Zane leaned close. The ticking had stopped.

"We’ll stay tonight," he said. "And observe."

By midnight, the manor was nearly silent. Zane stood alone in the drawing room. Eli and Lyra sat in the hallway, watching through the crack in the door.

At exactly 2:13 a.m., the air changed.

The temperature dropped. The lights flickered.

And then, tick.

The sound was unnatural—wet, reversed, like a voice played backward.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Zane’s eyes narrowed. The clock’s hands slowly began to spin counterclockwise.

He closed his eyes. The sound wasn’t just in the room—it was inside his head. A vibration against memory.

Tick. Tick.

The next morning, Zane was quiet. He stared at his tea, untouched.

Eli leaned in. "Are you okay?"

Zane looked up slowly. "I remembered my seventh birthday. I haven’t thought about it in twenty years. The cake had blue icing. I cried because it melted."

Lyra crossed her arms. "So it triggers memories?"

"No," Zane said. "It replays them. In reverse. And if you’re not careful... it pulls you into them."

He walked over to the clock and examined it again.

He removed the back panel, revealing something unexpected. Wires. Circuits. A tiny vial of liquid with a blinking microchip.

Eli’s jaw dropped. "That’s not antique. That’s tech."

Zane nodded. "This isn’t just a clock. It’s a neuro-reactive device. Embedded with a compound that releases something through vibration."

Lyra frowned. "Like sound-triggered neurotoxins?"

"Not toxins. Signals," Zane said. "It stimulates memory centers in the brain. Then regresses them. A form of controlled mental reversal."

"But why?" Eli asked. "Who would build something like that?"

Zane pulled an envelope from the inner frame. Inside was an old photograph—black and white. A man in a lab coat, standing next to the clock. On the back: Dr. Victor Helrow. 1943.

Zane's voice turned dark. "Helrow was a government neurologist during World War II. He studied psychological warfare. He believed memories could be used as weapons."

Lyra glanced at the clock. "And he put himself into it, didn’t he?"

Zane didn’t answer. He just stared at the pendulum, still swinging.

That night, Zane set up equipment: EEG monitors, sound recorders, infrared sensors. At 2:13, the clock chimed.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Zane sat in front of it, unmoving.

Then—

He gasped.

He saw flashes.

His mother brushing his hair.

His father shouting.

A dark room. A locked door.

He stood, staggered. The room twisted.

Lyra rushed in. "Zane!"

He stared at her, eyes blank. "Who... are you?"

Her heart dropped. "It’s me. Lyra."

He reached toward her, hand trembling. "I remember you."

Then he collapsed.

Zane awoke to the smell of peppermint. Lyra held a cloth to his forehead.

"You were out for fifteen minutes," she whispered. "You kept whispering something."

"What?"

"‘Time isn’t real.’ Over and over."

Zane sat up slowly. "Helrow’s consciousness. It’s inside the clock."

Eli stepped back. "Wait—like AI? Or—?"

"No. Human," Zane said. "He uploaded fragments of his mind into the mechanism. Using sound, memory, and chemical feedback. The clock is... a container. And it’s hungry."

Lyra’s voice cracked. "Then Peter—he’s being drained."

Zane nodded. "The more time it ticks backward, the more it consumes."

They needed a counter-signal. Something powerful enough to push back. Zane searched the manor’s archives and found an old recording: a lullaby sung by Helrow’s daughter. His only anchor to reality.

That night, they waited.

Zane placed a small speaker next to the clock. As it began ticking backwards, he played the lullaby.

Tick. Song. Tick. Song.

The room shook.

The pendulum froze mid-air.

Then snapped.

The glass shattered. The hands of the clock jerked forward.

Time surged.

The storm outside cleared.

Peter, asleep in the next room, gasped and sat up. He whispered, "Elizabeth... I remember."

Later, in the car, Eli asked, "Did it work? For good?"

Zane looked out the window. "We gave it what it wanted. A memory it couldn’t consume. Only feel."

Lyra leaned her head back. "You always do the impossible."

Zane turned to her, eyes softer. "That’s because you’re always there to witness it."

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t hide her smile.

Eli snorted. "Great. Emotional tension. Can we get coffee now?"

As they laughed, far behind them, deep in the ruins of the broken clock, a final tick echoed.

Backward.