Submitted to: Contest #317

The Watchmaker's Debt

Written in response to: "Center your story around someone who has (or is given) the ability to time travel."

Drama Science Fiction Urban Fantasy

Scout Cromwell was a man who lived in the past, just not his own. His small, cluttered shop, smelling of brass polish and old oil, was a hospital for broken timepieces. He could coax the life back into a seventeenth-century pocket watch or a 1950s chronograph with the same gentle, patient hands. He understood their intricate hearts, the delicate dance of their gears and springs. It was a language of precision and order, a stark contrast to the messy, unpredictable progression of his own life.

His great regret was a single, unfixable moment ten years prior. A stupid argument with his younger brother, Samuel, over their late father’s inheritance. Harsh words had been exchanged, doors had been slammed, and a decade of silence had followed. Scout, stubborn and proud, had let the silence stretch until it became a chasm too wide to cross. He often found himself staring at the phone, the ghost of an apology on his lips, but the gears of his own courage always seemed to jam.

One rainy afternoon, a man Scout had never seen before entered the shop. He was impossibly old, his face a web of deep-cut lines, and he carried a small, velvet-wrapped object. He placed it on the counter without a word. Scout unwrapped it to find a watch unlike any he had ever seen. It had no hands, no numbers. Its face was a disk of polished obsidian, and a single, intricate dial, marked with cryptic symbols, encircled its edge.

“It doesn’t keep time,” the old man said, his voice a dry whisper. “It spends it. It’s yours now. A gift.”

Before Scout could protest, the old man was gone, leaving only the strange watch and the lingering scent of rain. Scout, intrigued, took the watch to his workbench. He found no seams, no way to open the casing. He fiddled with the strange outer dial, turning it idly. As his thumb brushed one of the symbols—a stylized hourglass—the world lurched.

The scent of brass and oil vanished, replaced by the smell of brewing coffee. He was in his small apartment, the morning sun streaming through the window. The half-empty mug on his table was once again full. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was 7:00 AM. He had just lived the last nine hours, and now they were ahead of him again. He looked down at the watch in his hand. It was a simple, elegant tool, and its purpose was terrifyingly clear.

He spent the next week in a state of feverish, secret experimentation. A slight turn of the dial sent him back minutes. A larger one, hours. He learned to navigate the currents of his own recent past, replaying conversations, avoiding a spilled coffee, reliving a pleasant meal. It was intoxicating, this power to smooth out the small, rough edges of a day. But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, what he truly had to use it for. He had to go back ten years and unsay the words that had cost him his brother.

He found the date in his old journals. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and turned the dial on the watch, pouring all his will and regret into the motion. The world dissolved into a nauseating, colorless blur. He felt a violent wrenching, as if his very atoms were being unstrung and rewoven.

He opened his eyes to the familiar floral wallpaper of his old family home. He was younger, his face less lined, his hair darker. He heard voices from the living room—his own, sharp and angry, and Samuel’s, hurt and defensive. He had arrived at the exact moment. The heart of his regret.

He walked into the room. The two younger versions of himself and his brother stopped, their faces a mask of shock. “Don’t do this,” Scout said, his voice hoarse. “It’s not worth it. The money, the house… none of it is worth what you’re about to lose.”

He explained everything he could: the ten years of silence, the lonely holidays, the hollow ache of a broken brotherhood. He saw the anger in their eyes soften, replaced by a dawning, fearful understanding. He watched as his younger self looked at Samuel, truly looked at him, and the argument died before it could fully catch fire. They didn't embrace, but they didn't fight. The silence that followed was not angry, but thoughtful. Scout felt a profound sense of relief, a decade of weight lifting from his shoulders. His work done, he turned the dial and returned to his own time.

He appeared back in his shop, the scent of brass and oil a welcome familiarity. He felt lighter, freer than he had in years. He immediately picked up the phone and dialed Samuel’s number, a number he had known by heart for a decade but had never dared to call.

A woman answered. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Scout said, his heart pounding. “Is Samuel there?”

“Who is this?” the woman asked, her voice wary.

“It’s his brother, Scout.”

There was a long pause. “Samuel doesn’t have a brother,” she said, and hung up.

Scout stared at the phone, a cold dread seeping into his bones. He had fixed the argument. He had saved their relationship. So why didn't his brother’s wife know who he was? He spent the rest of the day in a frantic search online. He found Samuel’s social media profile. There were pictures of him and his wife, pictures of their two smiling children. But in all the family photos, Scout was absent. There were no pictures of them as children, no mention of a brother. It was as if he had been surgically removed from Samuel’s life.

The terrible truth began to dawn on him. The argument, as painful as it was, had been a catalyst. After their fight, Samuel had stormed out, driven across the country, and started a new life. It was on that journey, in a small-town diner, that he had met the woman who would become his wife. By preventing the argument, Scout had erased the journey. He had erased the catalyst for Samuel’s new life. In this new timeline, Samuel had stayed. He had met a different woman, had a different life. A life that, for some unknown reason, had no room for a brother.

He had not fixed the past. He had simply traded one regret for another, a familiar ache for a new and terrifying void. He had wanted to erase a moment of anger, and in doing so, he had erased a family. He had erased his nieces, the children he had only just discovered.

He sat at his workbench, the watch feeling impossibly heavy in his hand. He now understood the old man’s words. The watch didn’t keep time; it spent it. And the cost was always higher than you thought. He saw the choice before him with painful clarity. He could live in this new, sterile timeline, a stranger to his own brother. Or he could go back, undo his meddling, and reclaim his original, broken past. He would have to let the argument happen. He would have to endure the ten years of silence all over again.

But this time, he would know what to do with them.

With a heavy heart, he turned the dial one last time. He returned to the floral wallpaper, to the two angry young men. This time, he didn't intervene. He watched from the shadows of the hallway as the harsh words were spoken, as the door slammed shut, a sound that now felt like a beginning, not an end. He watched Samuel leave, knowing he was setting off on a journey that would bring him pain, but also love and a family.

Scout returned to his shop. The familiar weight of his regret settled back onto his shoulders, but it felt different now. It was not a burden, but a debt. A debt he now knew how to repay.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello?” It was Samuel’s voice. Gruff, surprised.

“Sam,” Scout said, his own voice thick with a decade of unspoken words. “It’s me. I was wrong. I’m so sorry.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, a silence that held ten years of anger and hurt. But this time, Scout didn’t hang up. He waited. He had learned that some things cannot be erased. They can only be endured, and then, with patience and courage, repaired. The silence stretched, and then, finally, a sigh.

“I’m listening,” Samuel said. And for the first time in ten years, Scout began to fix his own broken time.

Posted Aug 23, 2025
Share:

You must sign up or log in to submit a comment.

0 likes 0 comments

RBE | Illustrated Short Stories | 2024-06

Bring your short stories to life

Fuse character, story, and conflict with tools in Reedsy Studio. All for free.