If only there had been room for more than twelve hours on that clock. If its yellowing analog face had held more than half a day, if he could have twisted its hands back to midnight instead of noon, if he’d realized what he had in his hands sooner…

He twisted its key as if force would give him more time, as if it were just a matter of winding fast enough, with enough desperate grit in his teeth. Seven o’clock in the morning instead of at night would have made all the difference.

The shadows in the room reeled back as he wound the key, as the sun wound back, too, across the sky. But not far enough, not fucking far enough. Noon to midnight was nothing but all the time in the world to know he was too late.

Just another hour. Just to have that morning back, he would have done anything. But when the short and long hands of the watch and the sun struck noon, when he kept winding, the light swung around in a way that had made him sick the first time he’d seen it. Around and gone, woozy with how suddenly it was two minutes to midnight instead, the day almost over.

He had to keep winding then. Take the night back, run as far from that black-hour deadline as possible. If he let midnight pass, wouldn’t the clock only be able to rewind half of a new day?

He would be even further away, forever, from what he needed to undo. No, there had to be a way. He would keep winding until he found one or the key snapped off in his hand, and maybe time would stop then, nothing left in the world but night and him and a broken clock.