In a narrow alley of Old Delhi stood a tiny shop with a faded signboard that read “Kumar & Sons — Time Restorers Since 1895.” Inside, the air smelled of brass, oil, and quiet patience. The owner, Mr. Kumar, was a watchmaker — the best in the city. He could fix any clock, no matter how broken. But there was one rule he never broke: he didn’t repair watches that had stopped exactly at midnight. “Time that stops at twelve belongs to the other side,” he used to say. Arif, his young apprentice, laughed every time he heard that. “There’s no other side, sir. Just rust and dust.” Mr. Kumar would smile softly. “Maybe. But not every clock measures our time, boy.” One evening, just before closing, a woman entered the shop. She wore a black shawl and carried a small velvet box. “My father’s pocket watch,” she said, placing it gently on the counter. “It stopped years ago. Can you fix it?” Mr. Kumar picked it up — an exquisite golden piece, engraved with strange symbols. When he opened it, the hands were frozen exactly at 12:00. He sighed. “I’m sorry, madam. I cannot repair this.” The woman’s eyes darkened. “Then maybe your apprentice can.” She turned to Arif and smiled faintly. “You look curious.” Arif felt a strange chill but nodded. “I’ll try.” Mr. Kumar’s voice rose sharply. “No! Leave it.” But the woman had already walked out, leaving the watch behind. That night, curiosity won. When Mr. Kumar went upstairs, Arif stayed back and placed the pocket watch under the lamp. He opened it carefully and examined the gears. Strangely, none were rusted — they looked brand new. He cleaned it, adjusted the balance wheel, and wound it slowly. The watch ticked once. Then again. The hands began to move — backward. Suddenly, the lights flickered. The room grew cold. The ticking grew louder, echoing like a heartbeat. Arif looked around, frightened. The walls seemed to shift — the shelves, the clocks, everything — moving in reverse, as if time itself were unwinding. When he turned back, Mr. Kumar stood at the doorway, his face pale. “What have you done?” “I just fixed it—” Arif began. Before he could finish, the woman in the black shawl appeared beside the counter — but this time, her face was pale and transparent, her voice like wind. “Time kept me waiting,” she whispered. “Now, it’s your turn.” The watch chimed twelve times — slow, heavy, endless. When Mr. Kumar opened his eyes again, the shop was silent. Arif was gone. Only the golden pocket watch lay on the counter, its hands stopped once more — exactly at midnight. Mr. Kumar locked the shop that night and never opened it again. Years later, when the building was torn down, workers found an old clock ticking faintly beneath the rubble. Inside its glass face was the reflection of a young man — smiling, forever trapped between seconds. In a narrow alley of Old Delhi stood a tiny shop with a faded signboard that read “Kumar & Sons — Time Restorers Since 1895.” Inside, the air smelled of brass, oil, and quiet patience. The owner, Mr. Kumar, was a watchmaker — the best in the city. He could fix any clock, no matter how broken. But there was one rule he never broke: he didn’t repair watches that had stopped exactly at midnight. “Time that stops at twelve belongs to the other side,” he used to say. Arif, his young apprentice, laughed every time he heard that. “There’s no other side, sir. Just rust and dust.” Mr. Kumar would smile softly. “Maybe. But not every clock measures our time, boy.” One evening, just before closing, a woman entered the shop. She wore a black shawl and carried a small velvet box. “My father’s pocket watch,” she said, placing it gently on the counter. “It stopped years ago. Can you fix it?” Mr. Kumar picked it up — an exquisite golden piece, engraved with strange symbols. When he opened it, the hands were frozen exactly at 12:00. He sighed. “I’m sorry, madam. I cannot repair this.” The woman’s eyes darkened. “Then maybe your apprentice can.” She turned to Arif and smiled faintly. “You look curious.” Arif felt a strange chill but nodded. “I’ll try.” Mr. Kumar’s voice rose sharply. “No! Leave it.” But the woman had already walked out, leaving the watch behind. That night, curiosity won. When Mr. Kumar went upstairs, Arif stayed back and placed the pocket watch under the lamp. He opened it carefully and examined the gears. Strangely, none were rusted — they looked brand new. He cleaned it, adjusted the balance wheel, and wound it slowly. The watch ticked once. Then again. The hands began to move — backward. Suddenly, the lights flickered. The room grew cold. The ticking grew louder, echoing like a heartbeat. Arif looked around, frightened. The walls seemed to shift — the shelves, the clocks, everything — moving in reverse, as if time itself were unwinding. When he turned back, Mr. Kumar stood at the doorway, his face pale. “What have you done?” “I just fixed it—” Arif began. Before he could finish, the woman in the black shawl appeared beside the counter — but this time, her face was pale and transparent, her voice like wind. “Time kept me waiting,” she whispered. “Now, it’s your turn.” The watch chimed twelve times — slow, heavy, endless. When Mr. Kumar opened his eyes again, the shop was silent. Arif was gone. Only the golden pocket watch lay on the counter, its hands stopped once more — exactly at midnight. Mr. Kumar locked the shop that night and never opened it again. Years later, when the building was torn down, workers found an old clock ticking faintly beneath the rubble. Inside its glass face was the reflection of a young man — smiling, forever trapped between seconds.