You are walking. The boots are heavy, filled with the wet mud of the road, but you do not stop. You cannot stop. If you stop, the thing in your hand will change. It is already changing.

The engine of the carriage ahead coughs, a mechanical groan that vibrates through the dirt under your feet. You look up. The dust rises in a brown cloud, blinding and thick. Inside the carriage, the glass is dark. You know who is inside. You know what he is looking for.

"Hey!"

You jump. A boy is standing by the ditch. He is your age, maybe a year older. His face is smudged with grease. He is holding a wrench.

"Get out of the road," he says. His voice is flat. He does not care if you are hurt. He only cares about the path.

You step aside. The carriage roars past. The wind hits you, smelling of coal smoke and hot iron. The world tilts. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You look down at your hand.

You are holding a pocket watch. It is brass. The glass face is cracked, like a frozen pond. The hands are stopped at four o'clock. You found it in the grass three miles back. It was warm. That was the first wrong thing. Things do not get warm in the sun. Not really. Not like that.

You keep walking. The road stretches out before you, straight and gray. The sky is the color of old wool. You feel the weight of the watch. It pulls at your palm. You want to open it. You want to see if the gears are moving. You want to know if time is broken, or if it is just waiting.

You meet the old woman at the crossroads. She is sitting on a stump, shelling peas. She does not look up.

"Where are you going, boy?" she asks.

"To the city," you say.

"The city is a grave," she says. She drops a pea into a tin can. It makes a small, hard sound. "It eats things that do not fit."

"I have something," you say. You hold up the watch. "I found it."

She looks at it. Her eyes are small and sharp. They are the eyes of a hawk. She sees the crack in the glass. She sees the stoppage.

"That is not a find," she says. "That is a debt."

"I don't understand," you say.

"You will," she says. "When the gear breaks. When the truth comes out. It will be too late to put it back."

She goes back to her peas. You turn away. You feel foolish. You feel angry. You are a boy. You are free. You can keep the watch. You can sell it. You can fix it. You can do what you want.

But you do not stop walking.

The city is not far. You can smell it before you see it. It smells of oil and sweat and fear. The buildings rise up, black and jagged, like teeth. The noise is a wall. You walk into it. You walk into the throat of the beast.

You find a shop. The sign says Horology. The door is open. The air inside is cool and still. It smells of metal. A man is sitting at a desk. He is old. His hair is white. He is looking at a clock.

"I need this fixed," you say. You put the watch on the counter.

The man looks at you. He does not reach for the watch. He looks at your face. He looks at your eyes.

"Where did you get this?" he asks.

"I found it," you say.

He shakes his head. "This watch belongs to the Mayor."

Your stomach drops. You know the name. You know what the Mayor does. He owns the factory. He owns the roads. He owns the air. He is the man in the carriage.

"I didn't steal it," you say. "I swear. It was in the grass."

The man picks up the watch. He turns it over. He looks at the crack in the glass. He looks at the hands.

"It stopped when the bridge collapsed," he says. "Three days ago."

You freeze. You remember the bridge. You remember the sound. The screech of metal. The scream. You were there. You were on the other side. You saw the carriage go over. You saw the glass fly. You saw the watch fall.

You ran. You did not help. You ran because you were afraid. You ran because you were small. You ran because you did not want to be part of it.

"I didn't know," you say. Your voice is small.

"You know now," the man says. "That is the curse. To know. To see the time when it stopped. To see who was there."

He puts the watch back on the counter. "I cannot fix it. The mechanism is shattered. The spring is broken. It is dead."

"It's not dead," you say. "It's warm."

The man laughs. It is a dry, bitter sound. "Boy. Things do not bleed. Things do not burn. You are looking at a piece of metal. You are looking at a symbol. You are projecting your guilt onto an object. That is what men do. They make the world carry their sins."

You feel the heat in your hand. It is real. It is burning your skin.

"Give it back," you say.

"I cannot. It is evidence. The police will come. The Mayor will come."

"They will kill me," you say.

"No," the man says. "They will erase you. There is a difference. Killing leaves a body. Erasing leaves a hole."

You look at the watch. You look at the man. You look at the door.

"I will take it back," you say.

"Go then," the man says. "Run. Be free. But remember. The watch is not yours. It is a mirror. It shows you who you are. And you are a coward."

You walk out. The sun is high. It is hot. The heat is in your chest. You run. You run through the streets. The people are watching you. They see your face. They see your eyes. They know. They all know. You are the boy who ran. You are the boy who kept the watch.

You run to the park. You sit on a bench. You open the watch. The gears are still. The hands are still. The glass is cracked. You look at the crack. It looks like a vein. It looks like a road.

You close your eyes. You try to breathe. You try to forget. You try to be nothing. You try to be a stone.

But you are not a stone. You are a boy. You are alive. You are in pain.

A shadow falls over you. You open your eyes.

The man in the carriage is standing there. He is tall. He is wearing a black coat. His face is pale. His eyes are cold.

"Give me the watch," he says.

You shake your head.

"I said give it to me."

"It's not yours," you say.

"Everything is mine," he says. "I own the city. I own the law. I own you."

He reaches for the watch. You pull your hand back.

He smiles. It is not a kind smile. It is a hungry smile.

"Let me show you something," he says.

He takes out a pistol. It is black and shiny. He points it at you.

"Shoot me," you say.

He blinks. He does not expect you to say that.

"Shoot me," you say. "If I am dead, I cannot remember. If I cannot remember, I cannot be guilty. You want to erase me. Do it."

He lowers the gun. He looks at you. He sees your eyes. He sees the truth in them. He sees that you are not afraid. He sees that you are waiting.

"You are a fool," he says.

"No," you say. "I am a mirror."

He walks away. He gets in his carriage. He drives off. The dust rises. The world is quiet.

You are alone.

You look at the watch. It is still warm. You hold it in your hand. You feel the heat. You feel the pulse.

You do not try to fix it. You do not try to sell it. You do not try to hide it.

You stand up. You walk to the river. The water is dark and fast. You look at the watch. You look at the water.

You know what you have to do.

You do not throw it in. You do not drop it. You put it in your pocket. You put it against your heart.

You walk away from the river. You walk back to the city. You walk back to the life.

You are not free. You are not clean. You are not innocent.

You are carrying the time. You are carrying the stoppage. You are carrying the crack.

You will carry it forever.

It is heavy. It is warm. It is yours.

You walk. The boots are heavy. The road is long. The sky is gray.

You do not look back.

You do not look ahead.

You look down.

You hold the watch.

You feel the beat.

It is your own.