Thorne.

The word hung in the air, sharp as a snip of wire. Elias looked up from the bench. His hands were stained with oil and the rust of old springs. He wiped them on a rag that had long since lost its softness. The shop was quiet, save for the tick of a hundred clocks on the wall.

"Mr. Vane is waiting," said Silas, the apprentice. Silas was young, eager, and smelled of cheap tobacco. "He’s in the back office. He didn’t come in the front door. He came through the alley."

Elias nodded. He did not ask why. In Leeds, in 1904, if a man came through the alley, it was because he did not wish to be seen by the neighbors. Or because he wished to see what was hidden.

Elias stood. His knees clicked. Forty-five years, and the joints were already wearing out. He reached into the drawer beneath the workbench. The gold pocket watch sat there, wrapped in velvet. It was Margaret’s. She had taken it from her father, a man who had died with a coin in his mouth and a debt in his ledger. Elias had kept it for twenty years. He had wound it every morning. He had never let it stop.

But it had a flaw. A small, domestic anomaly. The second hand ticked backward. Only when he lied.

He had ignored it for two decades. He had told himself it was a mechanical error. A slip in the escapement. He had told himself that Margaret’s death was an accident, a fall on the icy steps. He had told himself that their poverty was the fault of the times, not his own hand at the card table. And every time he told those lies, the little gold hand reversed its course. A soft, backward whisper.

Now he had to sell it. The rent was due. The coal bills were stacked high. Vane was the only man with the money. And Vane was a man who did not ask for explanations.

Elias walked to the back office. The floorboards creaked under his boots. The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke and expensive cigars. Vane sat behind a desk of dark mahogany. He was a large man, broad in the shoulders, with a face like a slab of wet clay. He did not look up.

"Sit, Thorne."

Elias did not sit. He placed the watch on the desk. The velvet cloth crinkled.

Vane looked at the watch. Then at Elias.

"Margaret’s," Vane said. His voice was low, smooth as oiled leather. "I heard she died a while back."

"Twenty years," Elias said.

"Twenty years," Vane repeated. He picked up the watch. His fingers were thick, unsteady. He held it to his ear. He listened.

"It’s a fine piece," Vane said. "Gold case. Complicated movement. I’ll give you five hundred pounds."

Elias flinched. Five hundred pounds was a fortune. It was enough to pay the debts. It was enough to buy a new roof. It was enough to forget.

"Five hundred," Elias said.

"Are you sure?" Vane asked. He smiled. It was not a nice smile. It was the smile of a butcher looking at a prime cut. "It’s worth more to me than to you. I have a collection. I like things that are... unique."

Elias reached for the watch. He wanted it back. He wanted to put it in his pocket and walk away. But his hand hovered over the gold. The metal was cold. Colder than it should be. Colder than the winter air outside.

"It’s not just a watch," Elias said.

Vane raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"

"It’s a mirror," Elias said. The words came out before he could stop them. A slip. A lie, or a truth? He didn’t know. The second hand on the watch, still in Vane’s hand, began to move. Backward. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Vane’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the watch. He looked at Elias.

"Interesting," Vane said. "Do you know why it does that?"

Elias shook his head. He felt a cold sweat on his forehead. The room was spinning. The tick of the wall clocks seemed to fade, replaced by the backward whisper of the pocket watch.

"I bought it from your father," Vane said. "Or rather, I bought it from the man who bought it from him. I’ve had it for ten years. It does the same thing with me."

Elias stared. "What?"

"It ticks backward when I lie," Vane said. "I lie a lot. You know that. I lie to my wife. I lie to my partners. I lie to the men I fire. The watch keeps score. It’s a burden, Thorne. A heavy one."

Elias felt a wave of nausea. He had thought he was alone in this. He had thought the curse was his alone, a punishment for his own sins. But Vane had it too. Or had had it.

"Why are you selling it to me?" Elias asked.

"Because I can’t take it anymore," Vane said. He set the watch down on the desk. The second hand was still moving backward. "I want it gone. I want it broken. I want to hear the silence."

Elias looked at the watch. The gold case was scratched. The glass was cracked. It was a beautiful, terrible thing.

"I’ll take it," Elias said.

Vane laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. "You’ll take it? And keep it? And lie to it?"

"I’ll fix it," Elias said. "I’m a clockmaker. I can fix anything."

"You can’t fix the truth, Thorne." Vane stood up. He was much taller than Elias. He loomed over the desk. "You think you can repair the mechanism? You think you can stop the hand from moving? It’s not a gear. It’s a soul. And souls don’t break. They just echo."

Elias felt a primal fear. It was the fear of a rabbit in a field, hearing the snap of a twig. He wanted to run. But his legs were heavy.

"Here," Vane said. He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. It was a contract. "Sign here. And take the watch. And the money."

Elias looked at the paper. The ink was black, sharp. He picked up the pen. His hand trembled.

He signed.

Vane counted out the bills. Five hundred pounds. A stack of notes, thick and heavy. He placed them on the desk.

"Take it," Vane said. "And go. Don’t come back."

Elias picked up the watch. He put it in his pocket. He picked up the money. He turned to leave.

But the door was blocked.

Two men stood in the doorway. They were large, silent. They wore dark coats. They did not speak. They just stood there, blocking the exit.

Elias looked at Vane. "What is this?"

Vane leaned back in his chair. He lit a cigar. The flame flared in the dim light.

"I changed my mind," Vane said. "I don’t want you to have it. I want you to break it."

"What?" Elias said.

"Break it," Vane said. "Smash it. And if you do it, I’ll let you go. If you don’t, you stay here. And the watch stays with you. And the ticking stays with you. Forever."

Elias looked at the watch in his hand. The second hand was spinning wildly backward. It was a blur of gold.

The sound was deafening. Tick. Tick.

Tick. It was the sound of his own lies. The sound of his own shame.

He looked at the desk. The wood was solid. Oak. He raised the watch. He smashed it.

The glass shattered. The gold case crumpled. The gears flew out. But the mechanism did not stop. The backward ticking continued. Louder now. Echoing in the empty room.

Vane laughed. He laughed until he was crying.

"You fool," Vane said. "You fool. You think you can silence it? You think you can kill the truth? It’s in you, Thorne. It’s in your blood. It’s in your bones. You can break the watch, but you can’t break the lie."

Elias stared at the broken pieces on the floor. The gold edges were sharp. He picked up a shard.

It cut his finger. A drop of blood welled up. Red.

Bright. Real.

The pain was grounding. It was the only real thing in the room.

"I choose the noise," Elias said.

Vane stopped laughing. He looked at Elias. His eyes were cold.

"Good," Vane said. "Then you can go."

The two men stepped aside.

Elias walked out of the office. He walked out of the shop. He walked into the street. The city was loud. The roar of traffic. The shouts of vendors. The clatter of hooves on cobblestones.

He held the broken watch in his hand. The shards cut his palm. The blood dripped onto the cobblestones.

The backward ticking faded. It was drowned out by the city. It was just another sound. One of many.

He walked home. His shop was dark. The clocks on the wall had stopped.

He sat at his bench. He placed the broken watch on the workbench. The second hand stopped.

The silence was heavy. It was not peace. It was a stillness. A tragic, empty stillness.

He picked up his tools. He picked up a pair of tweezers. He picked up a screwdriver.

He began to work.

The curse was now a part of his daily routine. A part of the work. A part of the life.

He did not look at the watch. He did not listen to the ticking.

He just worked.