The rain had stopped by dawn.
What remained was the scent of wet earth, the faint shimmer of droplets on the windowpane, and the sound of life returning — the distant cry of a milk vendor, the creak of a bicycle passing through puddles, the hushed chatter of neighbors sweeping their porches.
For everyone else, it was a morning like any other.
For Vyom, it was strange — like waking up in someone else's dream.
He sat at the edge of his bed, hands loosely clasped, staring at the faint fog outside the glass. The clock on his wall ticked with perfect rhythm again. No hums, no whispers. Only time — flowing normally, as though nothing had happened.
But that was the problem.
He couldn't remember why it felt wrong.
Something heavy had been lifted from his chest during the night. He could feel its absence, a hollow echo where warmth should be. His head felt lighter — too light. Like a wound that had been cleaned too quickly.
"Vyom!"
The familiar call broke the stillness. His sister's voice — soft, musical, filled with the kind of warmth that never changed.
"Coming!" he replied, though it came out more like a whisper. He blinked, shook off the haze, and looked around his small room — the wooden shelves, the sketches of clocks, the half-finished pendulum on his table. Everything was in its place.
Almost everything.
His eyes lingered on the window. The glass was unbroken, yet… faintly cloudy. When the light hit it, he thought he saw a brief flash — a reflection of something that wasn't there. A tall shadow. A faint red hue.
But when he blinked, it was gone.
He dressed quietly and stepped outside. The wooden floor felt cool under his feet. His grandmother's prayer bells chimed softly from the other room. The smell of ginger and cardamom drifted from the kitchen.
A normal morning.
He should've felt relieved. Instead, he felt watched.
---
Downstairs, his sister, Aarika, was arranging cups on the table. Her hair was tied back messily, droplets of rain still clinging to the ends. When she noticed Vyom staring, she smiled in that effortless way only an older sister could.
"You look like you saw a ghost," she teased, setting down his tea. "Bad dream again?"
Vyom hesitated. "Maybe… I think so. But I can't remember."
Aarika laughed. "Lucky. Mine always involve failing exams or being late for class." She handed him a cup. "Drink before it gets cold."
He nodded absently, still distracted by something. The rain had left a faint mist outside — sunlight struggling to push through. It looked peaceful, but the peace felt artificial, like a painting he couldn't step into.
"You really didn't sleep well, huh?" Aarika asked, noticing his quietness.
"I… think I slept. But it doesn't feel like I woke up," Vyom murmured.
Aarika tilted her head. "That's one way to say good morning."
Her tone was light, but her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than usual — just enough to show concern. Then she ruffled his hair and went back to packing lunch boxes. "Go wake up Grandma, will you? She'll scold me if she misses her tea."
Vyom stood, still half-absent. "Okay."
He moved through the house — the sound of the ticking clocks following him wherever he went. The house was filled with them, of course; his father's creations lined every wall. Tiny pocket watches, tall pendulum clocks, wrist models — each one a little heartbeat in brass and steel.
Yet this morning, they sounded… different.
Their rhythm wasn't in sync.
Every clock ticked slightly off-beat from the others — like a hundred hearts trying to follow one another and failing. Vyom paused, confused. Normally, his father tuned them all perfectly every night.
He looked up at the biggest one — the Grand Clock above the staircase, his father's masterpiece.
The pendulum swayed gracefully, but the sound was faintly distorted, as if one swing happened a fraction too slow, the next too fast.
tick… tock… tick—tock… tick… tock.
It made him dizzy.
He touched the base of the clock and whispered, "You're not supposed to do that."
And for a second — just a second — the clock stopped.
His heart skipped.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then it resumed — perfectly normal again.
Vyom stepped back, pulse quickening. "Weird," he muttered. "Really weird."
---
Later that day, he went out to help his father in the workshop. The smell of metal polish and oil greeted him — sharp, familiar, oddly comforting.
His father, a tall man with kind eyes behind thick glasses, was bent over a dismantled pocket watch. "Ah, Vyom! Hand me that spring, would you?"
Vyom obeyed, his fingers brushing the small, coiled piece of metal.
The instant he touched it — the coil unwound itself. Slowly. Smoothly. As if alive.
His father blinked. "Well, that's strange… must've been too tight." He didn't notice Vyom's frozen expression.
But Vyom felt it — that invisible pulse again, the same cold rhythm from his dream. He pulled his hand back quickly, hiding it behind him. His fingers were trembling.
"Thanks, son," his father said absentmindedly. "We'll finish this one for the client by evening."
"Dad…" Vyom's voice came out hesitant. "Do you ever feel like… time doesn't move the same every day?"
His father chuckled. "When your mother is angry, yes."
Vyom tried to laugh, but it came out hollow.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the rooftops, Vyom found himself sitting outside — alone, watching the puddles dry on the street. The clouds had turned golden-pink, and somewhere, children were laughing.
He wanted to feel that simplicity — that lightness. But every time he tried, he heard something faint beneath the laughter: the low hum from his dream. Buried deep under the sounds of life.
Be still, child of reversal…
The words echoed softly, as though the memory were trying to claw its way back up through the Devil's seal.
He shut his eyes tight and whispered, "Stop it."
The hum stopped.
He gasped. Not from fear — from realization. Something listened.
He stood abruptly, heart pounding. His reflection in the puddle rippled — and for an instant, the world around him seemed to pause.
The falling leaf behind him froze mid-air. The wind went silent. Even the sunbeam on the water stilled.
Then, a heartbeat later, everything resumed — seamless, unaware.
Vyom stumbled back, breath ragged. "What's happening to me?"
No answer came.
But across the horizon, the faint outline of storm clouds gathered again — not natural ones, darker, denser, whispering with faint metallic glints.
And somewhere within that storm, beyond mortal reach, the Devil stirred.
He watched the boy quietly through the folds of time — eyes burning faint red.
The seal still held, but cracks had begun to shimmer.
He spoke, voice unheard in the waking world:
"Even sealed, the clock remembers the hands that wound it. The hour creeps closer."
---
That night, Vyom lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
Rain began again — light, endless, rhythmic.
He thought he saw something in the droplets on the window — not a reflection this time, but a faint symbol glowing faintly beneath the surface of the glass.
It looked like an eye made of two intersecting circles — turning slowly, endlessly.
He blinked. It vanished.
He turned his head, trying to sleep, but as his eyes closed, he heard a whisper — softer than a breath, curling at the edge of consciousness:
"Seventeen more hours, my heir."
Vyom's heart thudded once — the rhythm faltered — and the clocks in the house trembled.
---
End of Chapter 8 — A Gentle Morning After Rain