The Echo of Seconds

Ayan loved the narrow, winding lanes of College Street. While others hunted for rare textbooks, he looked for stories. Tucked between two massive bookstores was a shop no larger than a closet, filled with broken watches. Inside, an old man with eyes like clouded glass handed Ayan a silver pocket watch. It wasn't ticking, but it felt warm. "This doesn't measure hours," the old man whispered. "It measures regrets." Ayan laughed, paid a few rupees, and tucked it into his pocket.