The Hour Hand’s Smile

His eyes clung to the watch as if it were the only anchor in a dissolving world. Seconds didn’t tick—they rang. Each movement of the hand struck like a bell, metallic and hollow, reverberating against the night. “What summons you to that dial again and again?” I asked. “Are you late for some place unseen?” He shook his head, but the denial felt weightless. His lips formed words—I am here, am I not?—yet the watch chimed louder, swallowing his voice, replacing it with its own cadence. “Then give it here,” I said, stretching out my palm. “Now—or—” Before the word could finish, the sound broke open: ding dong, ding dong. The watch’s face flared with light, the hour hand bending, trembling, splitting into two. The sound wasn’t from the door. The door had no mouth. It was the watch calling, relentless, insistent. He looked at me then, his pupils reflecting the warped circle on his wrist. The grin slid across his face, slow as molten glass. “Do you hear it?” he whispered. And I did. The air was no longer silence but the tolling of time itself, endless, inescapable.