The first thing I noticed was the silence. It wasn’t the absence of sound, but the absence of familiarity—a quiet that carried the weight of things misplaced. When I stepped out of my workshop that morning, the streets felt wrong. They looked the same, sure, but the rhythm of life was... different. People walked briskly, their faces unfamiliar, their conversations hushed.
I stood on the corner of Maple Street, where my favorite café used to be. A mom-and-pop bakery had taken its place, the scent of fresh bread replacing the familiar aroma of roasted coffee. I’d changed something again—something small, I thought, but the consequences rippled outward, erasing the things I knew.
The pocket watch felt heavy in my hand, its silver casing gleaming under the morning sun. I thumbed it nervously, replaying the events of the last trip in my mind. I’d gone back to college—a moment I thought harmless. Just a casual decision to take a different internship. It didn’t seem monumental, but somehow, it had rewritten entire blocks of my life.
Maria’s face flashed in my memory. That warm smile she’d given me the first time I altered the timeline had been replaced by cold indifference. She wasn’t distant now—she was gone. Not just from my life, but from existence itself. That realization hit me harder than I’d expected. Could I bring her back? Or was she just... gone?
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By the time I reached my office, the anxiety had settled into a dull ache. The job I’d secured in my last jump was a good one, stable and well-paying. It felt wrong, though, like wearing someone else’s clothes. My colleagues greeted me warmly, using my name, but I didn’t recognize a single one of them.
I sat at my desk, staring at the sleek computer screen in front of me. The projects listed on my to-do list were foreign, their titles meaningless. I scrolled through emails, hoping for some anchor to ground me, but every message seemed to confirm what I already knew: I didn’t belong here. This wasn’t my life anymore.
"Rohan?" A voice broke through my thoughts. I looked up to see a man standing in the doorway of my office. He was tall, with sharp features and a kind smile. "You coming to the meeting?"
I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just give me a minute."
He lingered for a moment, his gaze scrutinizing me. "You okay? You seem... distracted."
"Just a lot on my mind," I said quickly. "I’ll be fine."
As he left, I leaned back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. This wasn’t sustainable. I couldn’t keep living in these fractured versions of my life, constantly adapting to changes I didn’t fully understand. But how could I stop? The machine had become more than a tool; it was an addiction. The thrill of rewriting my mistakes, of crafting a perfect existence, was too alluring to resist.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
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That night, I sat in my workshop, surrounded by the hum of machines and the faint scent of solder. The pocket watch lay on the table before me, its gears exposed. I’d dismantled and rebuilt it so many times that I knew every component by heart. But tonight, it felt like a stranger.
I opened a notebook, flipping through pages of scribbled equations and theories. The mechanics of time travel were still beyond my full comprehension, but I’d learned enough to navigate the basics. The question now was: Should I keep going? Was it worth the cost?
My fingers hovered over the watch, itching to set the hands. There were so many moments I wanted to revisit, so many things I wanted to fix. But every change seemed to come at a price. Maria’s disappearance was proof of that. How many more people would I lose if I continued?
As I sat there, the workshop’s dim light casting long shadows on the walls, a thought struck me: What if I wasn’t the only one? What if someone else had discovered the secrets of time travel? The idea seemed absurd at first, but the more I considered it, the more it made sense. The anomalies I’d noticed—the subtle shifts in reality that didn’t align with my actions—could they be someone else’s doing?
I needed answers. And the only way to find them was to keep going.
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The next jump was more deliberate. I chose a moment that seemed insignificant—a lazy Sunday afternoon when I’d skipped a family gathering to work on a college project. It was a choice I’d regretted for years, knowing how much it had hurt my parents. This time, I’d go. I’d sit through the awkward conversations, laugh at my dad’s bad jokes, and make my mom smile.
I set the watch and pressed the button.
The world dissolved around me, colors and shapes melting into a kaleidoscope of light. When the sensation subsided, I found myself standing in my childhood home. The familiar scent of baked goods and fresh flowers filled the air. Voices echoed from the living room, laughter mingling with the clink of glasses.
I stepped into the room, and my heart ached at the sight. My parents looked younger, their faces free of the worry lines that had appeared in later years. My sister was there too, her hair in braids, a mischievous grin on her face.
"Rohan!" my mom exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "You made it!"
"Of course," I said, smiling. "I wouldn’t miss it."
The evening was perfect. We played board games, shared stories, and for the first time in years, I felt like I belonged. But as the night wore on, a nagging doubt crept into my mind. This moment, as beautiful as it was, wasn’t real. It was a fabrication, a result of my meddling. And when I returned to my present, it would all be gone.
When I finally returned to my workshop, the weight of my actions hit me. I’d created a perfect memory, but it was fleeting, ephemeral. The reality I’d known was slipping further away, replaced by a patchwork of altered timelines. And the more I changed, the more fractured my life became.
The pocket watch ticked softly on the table, a reminder of the choices I’d made. I stared at it, the question echoing in my mind: How far would I go to fix my mistakes? And what would be left of me when I was done?