Darkness.
Not the absence of light.
The absence of awareness.
Hale didn't fall asleep.
He fell away.
Something cold pressed into his palm. Sharp around the edges.
And when he opened his eyes
the room was the same.
But he wasn't.
In his hand:
the clock.
Cracked.
Bleeding minutes that didn't exist anymore.
He didn't remember standing up.
Didn't remember grabbing it.
No footsteps. No time passing.
But the clock had found him.
The same glass face from earlier still fractured from the last time it betrayed him.
And yet...
it felt different now.
It felt like it was waiting.
He turned it slowly in his hand, inspecting it from every angle.
The second hand was still ticking.
But the minute hand?
Gone.
Vanished.
Like time was willing to count the seconds...
but refused to let him move forward.
Then came the throb in his chest.
Not stabbing.
Not burning.
Just a low, heavy pulse.
The Mark.
Like something ancient breathing through his bones.
He pressed his palm to it.
Cold skin.
Warm center.
He whispered, "You're not a scar, are you...?"
"You're a signal."
Another pulse.
Slower now.
Listening.
"You don't show the way," he said quietly.
"You warn me when I'm too close."
A beat.
Then nothing.
He stood up, still holding the clock.
Glass crunched beneath his foot—remnants of the mirror.
Remnants of before.
The air felt thinner now.
Like the room had already experienced this moment...
and was just waiting for him to catch up.
He turned the clock over.
No battery.
No wires.
And still it ticked.
Then he saw it:
A folded piece of paper, wedged behind the mechanism.
He slid it out with trembling hands.
One sentence.
Written in his own handwriting.
But older.
Sharper.
Etched with urgency.
"Tick once if you remember.
Tick twice if you still lie."
He stared at the words.
Didn't blink.
The second hand shivered.
And then
Tick.
Just once.
His throat went dry.
"I don't know what I'm remembering..."
But the Mark pulsed again deeper this time.
He staggered slightly.
The world tilted just enough to remind him how fragile everything had become.
He looked toward the sketch on his desk.
Then the mirror shattered.
Then the window.
Still. Windless.
And he could feel it.
Not outside.
Inside the clock.
Something watching him.
Waiting.
He whispered again.
"What do you want me to see...?"
And that's when it happened.
The air in the room shifted.
Snapped into place.
Like the moment had finally caught up to him.
Like time agreed to continue.
He looked back down at the clock.
And there it was:
The minute hand.
Returned.
3:13.
But this time it didn't tick forward.
It clicked.
And the Mark on his chest burned.
Not with pain.
Not with violence.
But like it was branding something new
into the bones of time itself.