Back in his dorm room, Theodore uploaded the photos, watching them load one
by one. Smoke. Brick. Fire damage. Exactly what he expected.
Except one image.
The date stamp was correct. Theodore checked it
twice, then a third time, waiting for the mistake to reveal itself. The year,
the month, the day—everything matched his phone, his watch, the call log from
the editor.
That should have been the end of it.
His eyes drifted instead to the far background
of the photo, to a shape he barely remembered noticing while on-site.
The clock tower.
It rose behind the burned building, partially obscured by smoke and
scaffolding, its face faint but readable when he zoomed in. Theodore frowned,
leaning closer to the screen.
The time read 3:00 a.m.
He sat up.
That wasn't possible.
The fire had broken out just after 3:00 p.m. He'd arrived closer to four, sunlight still sharp on the pavement, the sky bright and unambiguous. He remembered squinting. Remembered the heat.
He checked the other photos.
In every image where the tower was visible,
the time was the same.
3:00 a.m.
Theodore rubbed his eyes and glanced at the
corner of his laptop screen. The system clock ticked forward normally. Evening.
Present. Correct.
Maybe the tower's clock was broken…
That didn't sit right.
He couldn't remember checking the clock while
he was there, not consciously. But he remembered
passing it earlier that day—on the other side of the city, during a long walk
between the site for his scoop. He remembered glancing up and thinking it was
already late afternoon.
Three in the afternoon.
He stared back at the image, waiting for the feeling to resolve itself. It
didn't.
Theodore closed the photo and shut his laptop.
Memory was unreliable. Everyone knew that. Long days blurred together, times
slipped. There was nothing concrete to argue with—just a feeling and a number.
Tomorrow, he told himself. He'd confirm it
tomorrow.
The next morning, he stopped by the office to drop off the files in person.
The editor barely glanced at the screen as Theodore mentioned the clock tower,
pointing casually at the photo.
"Ever notice the time on that thing?" Theodore
asked. "It looks… off."
The editor squinted, then laughed.
"That clock?" he said. "It's been wrong for
years. Nobody bothers fixing it."
"You have to pass the photos by the afternoon so we can print it by noon, you
only need the picture, you don't have to scoop every minor details."
That answer should have settled things.
On his way out, Theodore asked a passerby near the street corner, gesturing
vaguely toward the tower in the distance.
"Do you know if that clock's broken?"
The old ragged man with a smoke glanced up, shrugged. "Probably. Don't look at
it much."
No concern. No hesitation. No curiosity.
By the time Theodore reached campus, the unease had dulled, worn down by
other people's indifference. He told himself he'd imagined the discrepancy.
That memory had played a trick on him. That he was tired, distracted, too eager
to find meaning where there was none.
Still— When he passed the clock tower again that afternoon, he didn't look up.
And he couldn't explain why. Now he need to give the photos back to the Evening Ledger by noon so they can give out the newspapers
by then.
The reminder came too late.
Ledger – Photo submission due: 12:00 p.m.
Theodore stared at the notification, a slow,
sinking realization spreading through his chest. He checked the time on his
phone.
11:37 a.m.
Of course it was noon. He'd known that. The
editor had said it offhandedly, like deadlines were an assumed constant rather
than something that could decide whether you ate properly that week.
Thirty minutes or so.
Submitting now would be easy. The photos were already sorted, edited just
enough to meet standards. Nothing controversial. Nothing questionable. He could
upload them immediately, send a short caption, and be done.
Allowance secured. No friction. No attention.
That was what he was supposed to do.
The camera sat on his desk, strap coiled
loosely beside it. Theodore glanced at it, then away, irritation creeping in at
himself more than anything else. It hadn't done anything. The clock tower had been in the background. He'd barely noticed it
while shooting.
The problem was his memory.
He remembered walking through a different part of the city earlier that day,
glancing up at the same tower from a distance, sunlight sharp enough to hurt
his eyes. He remembered thinking it was already late afternoon.
Three p.m.
That memory had weight. Not proof—just
certainty. He opened the submission portal anyway. The thumbnails appeared in neat rows. Flames. Brick. Smoke. The clock tower small and insignificant in the distance.
His cursor hovered over the upload button. Thirty minutes wasn't enough time to investigate anything properly. Going
back to the site would be pointless. Asking around would take longer than the
deadline allowed. Digging deeper now wouldn't be curiosity—it would be
self-sabotage.
And yet. If he submitted the photos as they were, whatever bothered him would be locked in place. Filed away. Archived. He
wouldn't get another chance to look at them with clean intent.
He closed the portal.
"Just to be sure," he muttered, already
grabbing his jacket. "Just five minutes."
The walk toward the clock tower was faster than it should have been, his
steps tight and purposeful. The late-morning city buzzed around him, ordinary
and unconcerned. Students passed by in clusters. Cars idled at crossings. Life
moved forward without hesitation.
The clock tower rose into view, stone familiar
against the sky.
Theodore slowed.
He looked up.
The clock face was clear, unobstructed,
perfectly mundane.
11:41 a.m.
Exactly right.
A sharp mix of relief and frustration
tightened his chest. He checked his phone. The times matched. There was no
ambiguity. No trick of light. No missing hours.
Nothing was wrong.
He stood there longer than necessary, watching the hands inch forward, waiting for something, anything... to shift.
Nothing did.
At 11:53, he turned away.
Back in his room, he uploaded the photos with
minutes to spare. No note. No comment. No questions. The confirmation email
arrived almost immediately.
Files, received.
Theodore leaned back in his chair, exhaling
slowly. He told himself he'd imagined the discrepancy. That memory was
unreliable under stress. That deadlines and debt distorted perception more than
any broken clock ever could.
He had done what he needed to do.
Still, as he shut down his laptop, a single
thought refused to leave him alone: The clock hadn't been wrong when he checked
it.
It had only been wrong...
when he photographed it.
And that felt like a distinction that mattered.
Does it still now? he muttered. It's just side hussle, would that small thing matter if people dont even bother towards it.