JOE_KRYPT🥶💰📈📉
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@_crytomaxi
CRYPTO TRADER | FINANCE | ENTERTAINMENT | SPORTS
THE HOUSE WITH BROKEN CLOCKS ⌚ {CONTINUATION FROM THE LAST EPISODE •••} I told myself I’d never go back. That was a lie kids tell themselves to sleep at night. Ten years later, I’m grown. I live two streets over now. Got a job, got bills, got a phone full of alarms that never stop ringing. But every time 4 :30 shows on my screen, my chest gets tight. Like the air gets thick again. Last rainy season, the mango tree finally fell. City workers cleared the lot. The house was coming down next. They said it was “unsafe.” I knew better. It was just tired of holding all that time alone. I went back the night before demolition. No dare this time. Just me and a candle. The door still sighed open. Everything was the same, but older. Dust thicker. Silence louder. The grandfather clock still said 3 :17. The kitchen clock, 11 :04. The tiny watch, 6 :52. Then the wind blew through the broken shutters and every clock hand moved. Just once. A single click forward. 3 :17 became 3 :18. 11 :04 became 11 :05. 6 :52 became 6 :53. They were starting again. Letting go of 4 :30, second by second. I sat on the floor and waited. At 4 :29, the house held its breath. At 4 :30, nothing burned. No fire. No screaming. Just the sound of a woman’s voice, clear and close, like she was right beside me: “Don’t be afraid of time, my love. Even broken things keep going.” Then every clock in the house started ticking. Not in sync. Not perfectly. But ticking. Messy, stubborn, alive. The next morning the bulldozers came. By noon, only rubble was left. But I took the tiny watch from the table. It’s on my wrist now. It loses three minutes a day. It stops when it wants. Sometimes I wind it anyway. Because broken doesn’t mean finished. And when it hits 4 :30, I don’t run anymore. I just listen. Because that’s when I hear her say my name. Not in warning. In welcome home.. TO BE CONTINUED •••
