On the third day, after breakfast, Brett adjusted Raj's collar and kissed his forehead. "Be good, alright?" he said gently. Raj nodded. "You'll come back before dark?" "Of course," Brett smiled. "And Lisa's here with you." Raj's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table, but he didn't say anything. As Brett stepped outside, locking the apartment door behind him, his eyes fell on something near the trash area. The broken clock. The one that had fallen from the stairs. It was still there. Cracked glass. Bent frame. Its hands frozen forever at 2:17. A faint discomfort passed through him. "The garbage truck probably didn't come," he muttered to himself. Still… three days? He shook the thought away and left for work.
ALong Day... Work was exhausting. Meetings stretched longer than expected, emails piled up, and yet Brett's mind kept drifting back. Back to the clock. Back to that exact time. 2:17. Why that time? Why twice? Why every time? As he drove home in the evening, lost in thought, he passed the familiar wall clock shop. His grip tightened on the steering wheel. He slowed down. Then stopped. If the seller of the apartment refused to say anything about its past… maybe someone else would. He parked. The bell above the door chimed softly as Brett entered. The shopkeeper looked up and smiled in recognition. "Ah! Back again?" "Yes," Brett replied politely. "Thought I'd drop by." They exchanged small talk for a moment — the weather, business, rising prices, the usual. Brett stood there for a moment, staring at the antique clock in the far corner of the shop. It still read 2:17. The shopkeeper noticed his silence. "You seem attached to that clock," he said lightly. Brett forced a small smile. "Yeah… it's strange. It keeps stopping at the same time." The keeper shrugged. "Old clocks do that. Faulty mechanism." Brett hesitated… then leaned forward slightly. "Listen," he said, lowering his voice—not in fear, but in uncertainty. "Do you happen to know anything about Apartment 608? The one I recently moved into?" The shopkeeper stiffened a little. "Why do you ask?" "I just…" Brett exhaled slowly. "I've been having trouble sleeping. My son too. And the previous owner refused to tell me anything about the place. If there's something I should know… I'd rather know it." The keeper waved a dismissive hand. "Oh no, no. Nothing like that. Old buildings always have stories. People exaggerate." Brett didn't leave. He stayed there quietly. "Please," he said after a pause. "If you've heard something… I'd prefer the truth over rumors." The keeper studied him for a few seconds. Then he sighed. "Alright. But it's just talk from years ago. Nothing official." He wiped the counter slowly as he spoke.
"About ten years back, a woman lived there. Kept to herself. Had a daughter—maybe nineteen or twenty. They weren't social. That's all." Brett nodded. "What happened to them?" "There was a fire," the keeper replied calmly. "Short circuit, they said. By the time the fire brigade arrived, it was too late. Tragic." "That's it?" Brett asked. The shopkeeper hesitated—not dramatically, just thoughtfully. "Well… neighbors used to say the woman was strict. Overprotective. Didn't let the girl mix much. People talk, you know how it is." Brett remained silent, waiting. The keeper sighed again, realizing Brett wouldn't leave. "Fine. Some said she had a temper. That she would shout. Maybe even punish the girl harshly. But there was never proof of anything. Just gossip." Brett swallowed. "And the daughter?" "They assumed she died in the fire too," the keeper said gently. "The structure collapsed badly. Identification wasn't… clear." There was no eerie tone. No whisper. Just matter-of-fact sadness. After a moment, the shopkeeper added almost casually— "She used to buy clocks from me. Strange hobby. Every month, a new wall clock. That antique one you're asking about? That came from her house." He chuckled lightly. "Doesn't even work properly. I keep meaning to fix it." Brett looked at the clock again. Still 2:17. He nodded slowly. "Thank you. I appreciate you telling me." "No need to worry," the keeper said. "Old places just have old memories." Brett managed a faint smile. "Yeah," he replied. "That's all it is." Brett opened his mouth as if to ask something more. Then stopped. Some questions feel dangerous once spoken aloud. He forced a polite nod. "Thank you." Outside, the evening sky was dimming into a dull orange-grey. The world looked normal. Too normal. On his way home, Brett stopped at a small roadside stall. He bought pancakes and dumplings — Raj's favorites. "If I'm thinking too much," he told himself, "at least tonight will be peaceful." For a moment, he convinced himself that everything he had heard was nothing more than coincidence. And yet… As he walked past his apartment building, he couldn't shake the feeling that the house was waiting for him.