Rip In Time -

Elias spun around. Standing by the door was a man who looked like a walking shadow. His clothes were modern, but his eyes were ancient.

The fissure snapped shut with the sound of a breaking heart.

With a roar of effort, Elias grabbed the pendulum. The brass was searing hot, smelling of burnt lightning. He forced it to a standstill. Rip in Time

Elias looked back at the tear. Through it, he saw his younger self look up, as if sensing a ghost. The colors in the current room were fading, turning the grey of old newsprint. His own hands were becoming translucent.

He looked at the key. He looked at his future self, who was slowly dissolving into mist. Elias spun around

The grandfather clock in Elias’s hallway didn’t just chime; it shuddered.

Elias was a restorer of "broken things," but this clock was a new kind of broken. He’d found it in the basement of a demolished Victorian estate, caked in dust and smelling of ozone. When he finally wound the brass key, the air in his workshop didn’t just move—it tore. The fissure snapped shut with the sound of a breaking heart

"The Rip in Time isn’t a window, Elias," the man said, stepping into the light. It was Elias—older, frailer, his hands scarred by burns he hadn’t received yet. "It’s a leak. Every second you let that clock run, the present drains into the past. You’re trading your 'now' for a 'then' that’s already gone."