The Eight Minute Countdown

Schedule–what matters.

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Meiling was the consummate superwoman–she was her father’s sole caregiver. Her mother, bless her soul, had passed peacefully a decade earlier.

Her apartment was silent, save for the incessant buzzing of phone reminders. Mei Ling lived and breathed a schedule–she had every task planned and accounted for.

But there was one thing she couldn’t fix–

That wall clock.

It had ceased along with her mother. The very day she died.

Time had stopped, but she refused to notice. Schedules were a grief mechanism–they were safer than unwanted memories. Rolodexes, none of which were about her.

So the clock waited, patient as time itself. The hands moved–with ticks that should not have been.

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11:13 p.m. A barely discernible hum replaced her usual calm demeanour. Outside, the intermittent glow of a streetlight.– it made its way into the corridor.

But with bated breath.

The darkness stretched, eight minutes too long.

Then, seconds.

Punctuated by the same hum—

But louder.

Thudding under her skin, on her bones, syncing with the beat of her heart.

Growing more intense, under her skin.

A lullaby she had long since mired with the clock’s odd ticks. She hadn’t heard it since the clock stopped moving.

Familiar. Sung before.

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Then, the light returned. The hands of every clock in Meiling’s apartment froze–

1:13.

Then, slow ticks.

Time moved–the wrong way.

Backward. Soft. Steady.

Every tick accused.

Her mobile pinged with a new voice mail.

Sent by her.

“You can’t schedule me.”

The past had stolen her voice.

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The good daughter was desperate–she grabbed a clock and brought it to Mr. Tan, her estate’s clockmaker. He didn’t just sell clock off the shelf–

He gave them life.

After looking hers over, he went to the back room of his workshop–

And returned with a pocket watch.

“Here,” He thrust it into her hands.

She stared at its gold case.

It gleamed, as if speaking–or had feelings.

She looked at him, nonplussed.

“Time remembers,” was his cryptic answer.

Then, her eyes fell on the mirror behind him.

She looked at–

Herself. Years younger.

Happier.

Schedule-less.

Untouched by grief.

She stared at the pocket watch.

An eight-minute countdown.

Her reflection wasn’t haunting. It was waiting for her.

Eight minutes–to face herself.

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With a deft move of both hands, Meiling smashed the clock–
.
Blood trickled down her knuckles.

The air in her apartment was still–consumed by silence.

The clocks started moving as they should–to 1:14 a.m.

Her young reflection smiled through tears in the mirror.

“I remember,” she whispered wanly.

Then, she knew.

Some clocks had to come apart before they could tick.

She had been haunting herself–with her schedules.

Her over-efficient ways.

Almost soulless.

Time had started again–and forgiven her.

She helped her father into the wheelchair—the old man smiled, and grasped her hand.

She was glad to hold it–at least, for now.

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