The hum of machinery filled the cramped workshop, an unrelenting reminder of the journey that had brought me here. Dim light filtered through the grime-covered window, casting long shadows over the scattered tools and half-finished blueprints. On the table in front of me, a machine blinked and whirred, its tangled wires and jagged edges betraying the fact that it was held together by nothing more than desperation and sheer willpower.

I tightened the last screw, my hands trembling. Years of work, sleepless nights, and countless failures had led to this moment. A crude invention born out of obsession, constructed from scrap metal and scavenged parts—a miracle built on the back of my stubborn refusal to let go of a dream.

Time travel was supposed to be impossible. A fantasy confined to the realms of science fiction and the wistful daydreams of starry-eyed children. But as I stared at the device, its rhythmic hum vibrating through the table, I realized this was no longer a dream. This was real. The culmination of everything I’d sacrificed.

On the table beside the machine lay a silver pocket watch, its face worn and scratched. The hands were frozen at 3:17, the exact moment everything had changed. I picked it up, running my thumb over its smooth surface. The weight of it felt different now, heavier with meaning. This watch had been with me since the beginning, a constant reminder of why I’d started this journey in the first place. A relic of a simpler time—before the obsession took hold.

I was ten years old the first time I dreamed of time travel. I used to lie awake at night, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, imagining all the ways I could rewrite my life. Every mistake, every regret, every moment that had gone wrong could be fixed. Back then, it was nothing more than a child’s fantasy. But as I grew older, the fantasy grew with me, evolving into something darker and far more dangerous.

It started small. A casual interest in physics, an afternoon spent flipping through a book about Einstein’s theories. Then it grew—textbooks stacked high on my desk, notes scribbled in the margins, equations scrawled on the backs of napkins. I’d lose myself in the numbers for hours, chasing a solution that always seemed just out of reach. By the time I was twenty, the idea had rooted itself so deeply in my mind that I couldn’t imagine a world without it. The seed of obsession had taken hold, and it was strangling everything else in my life.

Now, at twenty-eight, that seed had grown into a monstrous, all-consuming tree. And its roots had wrapped themselves around my soul.

The first time I used the device, it wasn’t supposed to work. It was an experiment, a test run. I had no idea what I was doing, no clue that a single flick of a switch would change everything. But when the machine roared to life, spewing sparks and shaking the table, I knew I’d crossed a line I could never uncross.

I closed my eyes and pressed the button.

The world around me twisted and bent, colors bleeding together like wet paint. The hum of the machine grew deafening, drowning out everything else. For a moment, I felt weightless, untethered from time and space. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

When I opened my eyes, I was standing in my high school chemistry classroom. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh glow illuminating the rows of desks and the periodic table on the wall. The familiar smell of disinfectant and old textbooks filled the air, triggering a flood of memories.

It worked. It actually worked.

My heart raced as I looked around, searching for her. And then I saw her: Maria. She was sitting at her desk, her brown hair cascading over her shoulders as she scribbled something in her notebook. My breath caught in my throat. For years, I had replayed this moment in my mind, wondering what would have happened if I’d just said something, anything. This was my chance to find out.

I forced my legs to move, each step feeling heavier than the last. My palms were sweaty, my mind racing with all the things I wanted to say. When I finally reached her desk, I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat.

Maria looked up, her hazel eyes meeting mine. She smiled, a small, hesitant smile that sent a jolt through my chest. “Hey, Rohan,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I stammered. “I was just wondering if... maybe you’d want to grab coffee after school? I mean, we could talk or...”

Her smile widened, and for a moment, I thought my heart might burst. “I’d love that,” she said.

Relief washed over me, and for the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe again. I had done it. I had changed my life.

But as I walked away, a strange feeling crept over me. Something wasn’t right. The desks, the walls, even the way Maria had smiled—it all felt... off. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough to make my skin crawl.

I told myself it was nothing, just nerves. But that night, as I lay in bed, the feeling lingered. What if changing one thing wasn’t enough? What if I could fix everything?

Over the next few weeks, the device became my lifeline. I went back again and again, each time tweaking a different moment. A missed opportunity, a bad decision, a thoughtless word. At first, it felt like a game, like I had unlocked some secret power. But the more I changed, the more I realized that nothing was ever truly perfect.

The first real warning came when I went back to Maria. Things had been strained between us—distant, awkward. I couldn’t understand why, so I decided to fix it. I altered our first conversation, nudging it in a new direction. When I returned, she didn’t even recognize me.

Her eyes were blank, her smile hollow. It was as if I had erased the very thing that made her... her.

And that was just the beginning.

Friends I had known for years stopped answering my calls. Coworkers avoided me in the halls. The memories I had clung to—the people I had loved—were unraveling, slipping through my fingers like sand. I tried to fix it, to undo the damage I had done, but every change only made things worse.

The machine sits in front of me now, its gears grinding softly, the glow of its dials casting eerie shadows across the room. I’ve gone too far. I’ve changed too much. The life I once knew is gone, replaced by a tangled web of alternate realities and fractured timelines.

I stare at the pocket watch in my hand, its frozen hands mocking me. It was supposed to be my anchor, my way back to the life I’d left behind. But now I’m not sure if that life even exists anymore.

Was it worth it? The question echoes in my mind, haunting me. Was any of it worth it?

The machine hums, its lights flickering like a heartbeat. I know what I have to do. One last trip. One final chance to set things right. But deep down, I know the truth: some things can’t be fixed.

And some mistakes can never be undone.