Arthur, 79, hadn’t been up in the attic for years.
Dust covered the old trunks and faded boxes, relics of a past he rarely spoke about. As he rummaged through a wooden chest, his fingers brushed against something cold and metallic.
A tarnished pocket watch.
Its hands were frozen at 3:15.
Arthur’s breath caught. He hadn’t seen this watch in decades. Not since...
Clutching it tightly, he made his way to the old train station. The tracks were rusted now, the benches worn smooth by time. On a whim, he wound the watch.
The world blurred.
Suddenly, he wasn’t 79 anymore. The station was bustling with energy—young men in crisp uniforms, steam hissing from the locomotive. Arthur gasped.
It was 1944.
And there, on the platform, was his younger self.
Arthur watched as his past self hugged a young woman, her eyes filled with unshed tears.
Margaret.
She clutched his hands, pleading. "Stay."
But young Arthur shook his head, too proud, too stubborn. He let go and boarded the troop train.
“Don’t let her go!” Old Arthur screamed. “Turn around!”
But his younger self never looked back.
The station faded.
Arthur stumbled, heart pounding, back into the present. The watch trembled in his hand.
Later that evening, he turned it over—and froze.
The hands had moved. Now they showed 10:42.
His wife’s final hours. The moment he had refused to be at her bedside.
Arthur’s chest ached with regret. He had spent a lifetime bitter, pushing people away. Just like he had pushed Margaret away.
Tears blurred his vision as he grabbed a pen and paper.
"Dear David," he wrote to his estranged son. "I was wrong. I should have never let you go."
The next morning, a knock echoed through the quiet house.
Arthur opened the door to find David standing there.
In his son’s hand was the same watch.
“Mom left this for you,” David said softly.
Arthur’s throat tightened. He reached out, fingers brushing the watch—a second chance.
Together, they wound it.
The hands ticked forward.