The clock arrived in Richmond like a promise carved in brass. Thorn and Son Antiques had appeared in a derelict strip mall off I-95, windows fogged despite the August heat. Inside, dust motes hung motionless, as if time itself hesitated.

  Marcus Hale, forty-eight, accountant, divorced twice, child support in arrears, stepped through the door on a lunch break that had stretched into the afternoon. His phone buzzed with another collection notice; his knees ached from years at a desk. He needed time. More of it. Any of it.

  Silas Thorn—face gaunt, eyes shadowed—did not greet him. He simply lifted the grandfather clock from its alcove. Oak case scarred with age, brass face etched with numerals that seemed to shift. The pendulum swung once, slow and deliberate.

  "This one," Silas said, voice cracked. "It gives back what was wasted."

  Marcus touched the case. Warmth spread through his palm like sunlight after rain. The shop sighed, floorboards creaking in approval. Silas felt it: Marcus's regret flooding in, thick and bitter. The hook set.

  At home, Marcus wound the clock. The chime rang clear, resonant. That night he dreamed of his twenties—stronger body, wife laughing, children small and trusting. He woke energized. Work flew by. He called his daughter, voice steady for the first time in years.

  The clock rewarded him. Each day, it "lent" hours: he felt younger, sharper. Wrinkles softened. Energy surged. He posted on Facebook: "Turning back the clock—literally!" Likes poured in.

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  But the loans accrued interest.

  By day five, his skin itched. Patches flaked. He ignored it. The clock chimed extra hours; he stayed up late, reliving memories in vivid detail—first kiss, wedding vows, the night his son was born. The dreams looped, perfect at first, then fraying: arguments replayed louder, regrets sharpened.

  Silas, in the vanished shop, felt time fracturing. His own days blurred—yesterday's dusting felt like last week. He caught his reflection aging in snatches: hair graying overnight, hands trembling. The shop pulsed: More.

  Marcus's body betrayed him faster. Hair thinned. Teeth loosened. Joints swelled. He stared at the clock face—hands spinning backward while his mirror showed forward decay. "One more day," he whispered, winding it tighter. The chime mocked him.

  Nights became torment. The clock forced replays: his ex-wife's tears, his son's disappointment, his own failures. Each loop aged him visibly. Skin sagged. Veins bulged. He clawed at the case, trying to stop the pendulum. Wood splintered; blood smeared brass.

  The final night: Marcus sat before the clock, body curled fetal. The chime rang thirteen times. His skin cracked like dry earth. Flesh sloughed in sheets. He reached for the pendulum—fingers bones now—and pulled. The clock stopped.

  Silence.

  He collapsed, body desiccated to parchment and bone in hours.

  At dawn, the clock vanished from his living room. Reappeared in the shop, pendulum still, face pristine.

  Silas touched the case. His own reflection stared back—older, thinner. He forgot what day it was.

  The shop moved on.