Ethan Miller shoved the last bite of his pancake into his mouth, swinging his legs under the kitchen chair. His mom sat across from him, sipping her coffee, while his dad had his nose buried in the San Francisco Chronicle, muttering about the Giants' pitching rotation.
Outside, the steady whirr of construction filled the air. For the past few days, a crew had been fixing sidewalks and trimming trees, setting up cones along the street. Ethan barely noticed anymore. Saturdays were for baseball and comic books - and right now, that was all that mattered.
"Can I go?" he asked, pushing his plate forward.
His mom gave him a pointed look. "Swallow first."
He exaggerated a gulp, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "There. Done."
His dad smirked, eyes still scanning the paper.
His mom sighed, setting her coffee down. "Alright, but be careful. And stay away from the street work."
Ethan grabbed his baseball cap and darted toward the front door.
Outside, the air was crisp, laced with the scent of fresh-cut wood and damp pavement. The tree-trimming crew worked across the street, a mechanical arm sawing away at overgrown branches. Workers were setting up near a section of sidewalk that had been torn up.
Ethan barely glanced at them as he set off toward Balboa Street, ready to stop by the comic book store before heading to the ballpark.
Halfway there, he slowed.
A storefront had appeared where he was sure there hadn't been one before.
It sat between a bookshop and a candy store, its wooden sign swaying gently in the morning breeze.
"Time and Time Again - Fine Clocks"
Ethan frowned.
That wasn't here yesterday.
The display window was packed with clocks - old wooden mantel clocks, sleek modern ones, pocket watches hanging from delicate chains.
Something about the shop tugged at him. It felt wrong - or maybe just out of place.
Before he knew it, he was pushing open the door.
A soft chime rang overhead.
The air smelled of aged wood and clock oil, and the sound of hundreds of ticking clocks filled the space. Some slow and deliberate, others quick and frantic. The overlapping rhythms pressed in on him.
"Good morning."
Ethan flinched.
An older man stood behind the counter. He was silver-haired, dressed in a vest and round glasses, his sharp blue eyes fixed on Ethan as if he had been expecting him.
Ethan hesitated. "Uh? hi. I never saw this store before."
The shopkeeper smiled slightly. "We open when the time is right."
Ethan wasn't sure what that meant, but his attention had already wandered. The walls were packed with clocks - some modern, some antique, some with intricate carvings.
He drifted deeper into the store. The lighting grew dimmer toward the back, casting long shadows over polished wood and brass.
Then he saw it.
A grandfather clock, larger than any he'd ever seen, stood nestled between two towering shelves.
Its glass door was slightly open.
Ethan glanced at the other clocks around him. Every single one showed the same time.
Except the grandfather clock.
It was one hour ahead.
A strange unease settled in his chest.
The shopkeeper was still at the counter, flipping through a book, paying no attention to him.
Ethan took a step closer.
The glass door was still ajar.
Inside, the pendulum swayed silently. But beyond that, something else was there.
A door.
Not part of the clock. Not part of anything.
A simple wooden door with a handle, built into the back of the grandfather clock, leading somewhere it shouldn't.
Ethan's fingers twitched.
He reached forward.
His hand brushed the wood -
And the world lurched.
For a split second, there was nothing. No sound. No weight. No breath.
Then -
He stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet.
The shop was the same.
But the light outside had changed.
Every single clock in the store had moved forward.
The grandfather clock behind him was now closed - its hands showing the correct time, as if nothing had happened at all.
A distant siren wailed outside.
His pulse spiked - but not in fear. More in curiosity.
He stepped outside.
Down the street, he saw the glow of emergency lights reflecting off storefront windows. Fire trucks. Police cars.
Something had happened.
But what?
He wasn't close enough to see.
Without thinking, he started walking. His pace quickened as he turned the corner, following the lights.
As he neared his neighborhood, his heart picked up speed.
By the time he reached his street, his breath was coming in short bursts.
His front door was wide open.
Inside, the kitchen window was gone.
Shattered glass covered the countertops and floor, glinting like tiny diamonds in the afternoon light. The sink, where his mom should have been standing, was now half-obscured by the massive, clawed extension of the tree-trimming machine. The metal arm had punched through the window like a battering ram, leaving deep gouges in the kitchen wall, the jagged edges of the broken cabinets curling outward like splintered ribs.
And then -
His gaze dropped.
His mom was there.
No.
Pieces of her were there.
Her body lay crumpled on the floor, twisted in a way that made no sense, her arms sprawled outward as if reaching for something she would never touch again. Blood had spread beneath her, thick and pooling, seeping into the cracks between the tiles.
Her head was missing.
For a heartbeat, Ethan's brain refused to process it.
His mother was just a shape now, an outline that should have been familiar but wasn't. And then he saw it - saw her head, lying two feet away, turned at an unnatural angle, the mouth slightly open, frozen mid-scream. One eye was half-lidded, the other bulged, as if she had seen it coming just before -
His stomach lurched.
Something rose in his throat, hot and acidic, and he whirled away from the sight, barely choking back the urge to vomit.
A paramedic crouched near the body, murmuring something to a police officer, their voices distant, muffled, like they were speaking through water.
His dad was nowhere.
The kitchen clock - one of the few things still intact - kept ticking.
And Ethan knew.
He had seen this.
The grandfather clock had been one hour ahead, and now - this had happened.
The realization slammed into his chest.
His mom was already gone.
Unless -
He turned and ran.
His feet pounded against the pavement, his breath coming in sharp gasps.
The wooden door of the shop loomed ahead.
Ethan shoved it open.
The shopkeeper was still there, still flipping through the book, unaware Ethan had even left.
Ethan didn't stop.
He ran straight to the grandfather clock, yanked the glass door open, and stepped inside.
The pendulum swayed soundlessly beside him.
Beyond it, the second door stood waiting.
He grabbed the handle and threw it open, his palm scraping against the rough wooden edge as he pulled himself through. A sharp sting shot up his hand, but he barely registered it.
The world lurched.
His feet hit the wooden floor of the shop.
The lighting was the same. The clocks ticked in their endless rhythm.
Ethan looked at the grandfather clock.
It was one hour ahead of the others.
Just like before.
He didn't hesitate. He bolted out the door and ran.
His breath came hard and fast as he sprinted toward home. The city blurred around him, familiar streets stretching and contracting, like time itself was still resisting him.
When he finally reached his house, everything was quiet.
No sirens. No flashing lights. No broken glass.
He burst through the front door.
His dad was in the living room, vacuuming.
His mom was in the kitchen, doing dishes.
Ethan nearly collapsed from relief, but there was no time. His chest heaved as he ran to the kitchen, grabbing his mother's wrist and yanking her away from the sink.
"Ethan! What are you doing?" she gasped, stumbling as he pulled her into the living room.
His dad shut off the vacuum, staring in confusion. "What's going on? Ethan, what's wrong?"
His mom shook her arm free. "Did something happen at the ballpark? Are you hurt?"
Ethan's heart was still hammering. He couldn't speak. Couldn't form the words.
He just shook his head, his body trembling.
His parents exchanged a look, concern etched on their faces.
Then -
A screeching, metallic scream tore through the air, reverberating through the house.
His dad turned toward the noise, confusion flickering into alarm.
A second later -
A violent tremor shook the house, rattling the floor beneath them.
Then came the shattering explosion of glass, sharp and piercing, ringing out from the kitchen.
For a long moment, none of them moved.
Then, hesitantly, they stepped toward the kitchen.
Shards of glass glittered in the morning light.
And hanging over the sink, like a mechanical beast frozen mid-attack, was a massive piece of construction equipment.
The tree-trimming arm had punched through the window, the jagged edges of the frame curling inward, a reminder of how easily it could have crushed everything in its path.
Ethan's mom stared, her hands pressed over her mouth.
His dad's face drained of color.
None of them spoke.
They simply stood there, frozen in horror, the truth settling over them like a weight.
Ethan's hands clenched into fists. His skin felt clammy, his breathing shallow.
Then his gaze dropped to his palm.
There, across his skin, was a small cut, red and stinging where he had scraped it against the clock.
A wound from a future that no longer was.