The Anatomy of a Stolen Second

I watch the dust motes dance in the light, each one a tiny galaxy spinning toward its inevitable end. Here, in this chair, I am suspended between who I was and who you will make me become.
In Timeline A, my hand reaches out to touch yours as we share this coffee, and the world settles into a permanent autumn—warm, fragrant with cinnamon, and safe. In Timeline B, I look away just as you arrive, and we spend another decade as ghosts passing in corridors of glass and steel, our names never spoken aloud.
But in this precise second, I am neither here nor there. I am the pivot point. Your gaze is the hammer that strikes the chime, deciding which destiny becomes my truth. My heart beats in sync with your pulse, a rhythmic ticking that echoes across centuries yet to pass. Stay for a moment more. Let us let the gears grind together until the friction of our souls creates a spark that outlasts time itself.

Editor: The Clockmaker