Back in the café, time felt wrong. The clock's hands were frozen at 11:13, and the barista hummed a tune you were sure you'd never heard before.
On a high shelf sat a porcelain cat, black with gold-painted eyes. It blinked — once, twice.
The key in your pocket pulsed with heat. Beneath the shelf, hidden behind the wooden wall, was a tiny door marked with the same number.
You knelt, turned the key, and the air itself rippled.
Stone walls. Blue lanterns. A corridor lined with doors numbered in impossible sequences: 12, 14, 11½. The air smelled of oil and old dust. From somewhere deep within came a soft, rhythmic purr.
You followed it to a circular room where a grandfather clock stood at the center, its hands turning backward. Perched atop it, alive and watching, was a black cat with eyes like molten gold.
"You found it faster than expected," it purred, though its mouth never moved. "Tell me,… do you want to remember what was taken from you?"
There was a keyhole beneath the clock's face — a perfect fit for your brass key.
You hesitated. "What happens if I don't?"
The cat's eyes narrowed.
"Then the clock will keep turning backward until time forgets you."
The ticking grew louder. The cat leapt down, its tail curling around your ankle.
"But if you open it… you'll remember who started the game."
You turned the key. Light exploded through the room, bright as lightning through fog.
The memory hit you like a falling tide —
The figure with the pendant hadn't been a stranger. It had been you.
Another version of yourself, trapped between seconds, leaving clues for the next you to follow.
"Welcome back," said the cat softly. "We've been waiting for you to find yourself."
And then the world began to rewind.