Uncle Shom smiled, and for the first time, I saw fear behind his bourbon-colored eyes.
He then told me the first piece of the story—the part that would hook me forever. Uncle Shom Part 1
But the pocket watch remained. I picked it up. The hands were still moving—forward this time. And on the inside of the lid, where there had once been an engraving of a compass rose, there was now a new inscription: “Gone to fix the past. Be back before you grow up. — Shom” That was thirty-seven years ago. I’m forty-seven now. Uncle Shom never returned. My father claimed the whole thing was a stress-induced hallucination. My mother refused to discuss the “spare room.” But the pocket watch is in my desk drawer as I write this. And every now and then, usually at 2:47 AM, I hear a faint knocking. Uncle Shom smiled, and for the first time,
“What happened?” I breathed.
Uncle Shom stood before it, fully dressed, the silver-handled umbrella in one hand and my pocket watch in the other. He didn’t look surprised. He looked tired . I picked it up
Because time might just look back. End of Part 1
“Who?” I asked, my voice a thin wire.