ONE / CLOCKS.

❛ confusion that never stops
closing walls and ticking clocks ❜

Every Sunday, it was the same. The same dusty driveway, the same creaky door to the car, the same awkward wave from Frank as he drove away, probably off to do something he'd tell Phil he was too busy for. Phil always stood there a little too long, watching the taillights disappear into the distance. His fingers twitched in his jacket pocket, playing with the crumpled candy wrapper from last week's road trip snack, a tiny bit of sweetness left in the folds. The thing was, even at seven years old, he was starting to understand what this part of the week meant: his dad was leaving him. Not forever. But for the weekend. A few hours that stretched on forever.

Phil turned, the gravel crunching under his sneakers, and walked up the crooked path to his grandparents' house. It wasn't a bad house-no, nothing like that-but it felt... old. Not in a cozy, antique way, but in a way that made him feel small. It was like being in one of those rooms at the museum where everything was too valuable to touch, and you weren't allowed to sit on the furniture. The house had a smell too-like wood mixed with something that wasn't quite soap but almost, like the kind of smell a place might have if it didn't have kids running around anymore.

The door creaked open before he even knocked, and there was Ted Dunphy, Grandpa. His grin was too big for his face, and his hair was a mess-like he'd just been waging some sort of battle with a pillow. "Ah, Phil! You're here!" he boomed, his voice so loud it echoed off the walls in a way that felt like it was trying too hard to be happy. Grandpa's slippers squeaked on the floor as he shuffled forward, arms wide, like he was about to scoop Phil up in a bear hug-but he never actually did. He just clapped him on the shoulder instead, like an old man who had forgotten how to hug, but didn't know any other way to show excitement.

"Yup, just dropped the ol' kid off," Phil muttered under his breath, trying to act like he wasn't in the middle of some sort of personal tragedy. He glanced down at his sneakers, scuffing the toes a little on the mat as Grandpa beamed at him like he was the best thing that had happened to him in a week.

Inside, everything looked exactly like Phil remembered. Everything was... stiff. Stiff like the dust had taken over everything, from the porcelain vases on the mantle to the golden-framed pictures of people Phil had never met. It was a place frozen in time, where you couldn't touch anything, and where his little feet seemed too loud on the hardwood floors. The house was always so quiet it made Phil feel like he was being too noisy just by existing. He stood there, unsure if he should go inside or just keep standing by the door, letting it remain open. He never knew if Grandma would actually notice him or not.

But Grandma was somewhere in the back, probably on the couch watching whatever cooking show was on the list for the day. That was what Grandma did on Sundays-sit in front of the television, hands folded neatly in her lap, occasionally muttering about the perfect pie crust or the proper way to slice carrots. Phil could never get into it. He'd just stand in the doorway, watching her carefully place the remote on the side table after turning the volume down-like the house was holding its breath.

Grandpa wandered off to do something else, no doubt fiddling with some old tool he didn't really need, leaving Phil alone to his thoughts. The silence wrapped itself around Phil, thick and uninviting. It wasn't that he hated the house-it was just that it made him feel too small for the world outside.

The attic door was half open. That always made him curious-curious in the way things were before they became boring. The attic was filled with boxes of old junk-Grandpa's old sports equipment, a mountain of newspapers no one ever read, and books stacked in precarious piles that looked like they might fall over if Phil dared to touch one. The air down there had a different weight, heavier, almost sticky.

Phil walked past the stairs to the attic, his hand brushing against the railing, feeling the dust on his fingertips, wondering how long it had been since the old man bothered to clean. It didn't seem to matter, though. Everything here felt too permanent. It felt like time had just stopped in this house, each second unfolding the same way as the last.

When he reached the kitchen, he could hear Grandma shuffling, the sound of her slippers dragging over the linoleum floor as she rearranged the things that never moved. A jar of pickles sat on the counter, half-open, its lid tilted at a strange angle. Her kitchen always smelled like onions and garlic, even if she wasn't cooking either. It was the kind of smell that just... hung around.

Grandpa wasn't far behind. He was still talking about something-maybe a story about his youth or a grand adventure from his time in the army, or maybe a tale about a place he'd only half-remembered. Phil's mind wandered as the old man kept going.

He stared out the window, letting the voice of his grandfather become background noise. Through the glass, he could see the street. It was empty. Nothing was moving. It was like the world outside was waiting, too. The sun outside was starting to slide down behind the trees, casting long shadows over the yard, but inside the house, the light never really changed. It always felt like dusk in here-like the day had decided to give up on being bright and just settled into this soft, steady grayness that clung to the walls. Phil shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking at the faded wallpaper that had once been colorful but had now lost the battle to time. The flowers had begun to bleed into each other, turning into a mush of yellow and green that seemed to reflect the mood of the house. Everything felt stuck, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something, anything to happen.

Grandpa's voice echoed in the kitchen, bouncing off the faded cabinets. He was telling Phil about some old neighbor who hadn't aged well, laughing at his own joke, but it was that empty kind of laughter-like a laugh that didn't really have a punchline, just a sound to fill the space. Phil didn't even know why Grandpa kept talking. It wasn't like he was waiting for an answer. He never really waited for one. It was as if Grandpa just needed the sound to exist, to make sure there was some kind of life here in this house. But Phil wasn't paying attention. His mind was elsewhere, darting between the flickering images on the TV and the sticky feeling in the air.

There was an old clock on the wall, the kind with the long hands that ticked louder than anything. Every second was like a reminder that time was moving, but not here. Not in this house. Phil couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the clock actually tick. The hands just stayed still, frozen at some hour that didn't matter anymore. It felt like the whole house had just given up on trying. No one came to visit anymore. No one but Phil. The house used to feel full, but now it was just the two of them-Grandpa and Grandma-sitting in the spaces between time, breathing in the air that felt too thick to let them move.

A car engine rumbled faintly from outside, the sound of someone passing by. Phil's attention snapped toward the window again, his fingers itching to press against the glass and push the world outside to make it feel like it was still moving. The trees outside shivered slightly, the wind barely stirring the leaves, making them flutter in the way old things do when they're trying to hold on to something that's slipping away.

But nothing happened. No car pulled into the driveway. No one came to knock on the door. Just the sound of Grandpa's rambling and the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl. There was a magazine on the table, a dog-eared issue of some home improvement guide. Phil picked it up absently and flipped through the pages, his fingers grazing over the paper. It was all bright colors and promises of things you could fix. Big, shiny houses that looked nothing like this place. Nothing like the place where he was right now. Where nothing changed. He set the magazine down with a little too much force, and it flopped open to a page about paint colors. None of them looked right, just like the rest of this house.

Phil didn't know why he kept coming here. Why he kept being dropped off every Sunday, like some part of his life was just being put on pause while the world went on. But it wasn't like there was anywhere else to go. It wasn't like there were places he wanted to be. Here was just... here. It was like standing on a road that never led anywhere, just a path that looped around itself, keeping you from moving forward, keeping you stuck in place.

A drawer slammed in the kitchen, and Phil snapped his attention back to Grandpa. His eyes were squinting as he pulled out a jar of pickles, looking over it like it was some sort of treasure map. "Phil," Grandpa said suddenly, his voice hoarse and tired, "can you hand me that towel?"

Phil blinked. The towel? He hadn't even noticed it. He looked around, and there it was, folded up on the counter, just sitting there like everything else in this house-waiting. He reached for it, but his hand paused before he grabbed it. Something felt... off. Like there was some weight pressing down on him, making it hard to move. But then the moment passed, and he picked it up, handing it over to Grandpa without another word. The towel felt cold in his hands, like it had been sitting there for too long without anyone needing it.

"Thanks, kiddo," Grandpa said absently, his eyes already back on the pickles. Phil didn't respond, just stood there, waiting for the next thing to happen, even though he knew it wouldn't.

The house creaked in the silence that followed, the sound of old wood stretching and complaining. The walls felt like they were closing in, and the floor beneath him seemed to sink a little, like it was trying to pull him down into the ground. But he stayed there, still, just like everything else. Nothing moved.

Outside, the sun was almost gone now, leaving the sky streaked with orange and pink, but the room never seemed to notice. It was always the same inside-same smell, same sounds, same way the clock didn't tick, same way the world outside seemed to be forgetting them. Phil stared out the window again, wishing for something, anything, to happen. Something that would shake up the silence. But it didn't. It never did. The house just sat there, heavy and unmoving, and so did he.

Phil stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the space where the light seemed to give up, the shadows stretching far too long, like they were holding onto something they shouldn't. He heard the creak of the floorboards in the kitchen as Grandpa shuffled around, but it was like the house was humming its own quiet tune, one that only the old could hear. The walls felt closer now, pressing in on him, making it hard to breathe. The air, thick with old furniture and memories, didn't seem to let him move freely.

He turned his back to Grandpa, who was now muttering something about a jar lid that wouldn't budge, and quietly made his way toward the stairs that led down into the basement. His footsteps were soft on the creaky wood, but the house seemed to know, felt it deep in the bones of the floor that he was moving again.

Phil didn't even pause at the bottom of the stairs. He just moved. It was like the attic had always been waiting for him, calling him without speaking, a place where the dust had settled in layers so thick that even the air felt weighted. The stairs groaned under his weight as he descended, each step a complaint from the house, reminding him that it wasn't a place for children. But Phil didn't care. The attic was different. It was like an afterthought, a forgotten part of the house that only came alive in the silence.

The light bulb flickered above him as he reached the top, casting long shadows over the concrete floor. The air here was heavier than upstairs, thick with that stale, musty smell of old things-of things that had been left behind and forgotten. The walls of the attic were a patchwork of exposed beams and chipped plaster, everything cobbled together like the house had just thrown up its hands and decided not to try anymore. Boxes were stacked high against the walls, all of them crammed with things that had no real place. Old furniture. Broken appliances. And somewhere, buried under it all, was the kind of junk that nobody wanted to admit was still hanging around.

Phil walked further into the attic, his sneakers scuffing against the cold, smooth concrete. His fingers brushed against the boxes as he passed, and for a second, he thought he felt something shift inside. But it was just a trick of the light, or maybe the house was just settling again, groaning as it always did. He paused, reaching for a box on the floor, something labeled with faded, curling tape that had long lost its stickiness. He peered inside, but there was nothing remarkable. Just more dust and old books, their pages yellowed and curling at the edges.

It felt like he was looking for something he couldn't quite name. Something that would make this all feel different, or at least, make it seem like something had changed.

Then he heard the creak again, softer this time. His head whipped around, but the basement was just as still as before. No movement. No noise. The furnace hummed somewhere in the corner, a low growl that filled the space, but that was it. He rubbed his eyes, the tiredness pulling at him again. Maybe it was the air down here, or maybe it was just the weight of everything that had been left behind.

The stairs groaned again, louder this time, as if the house was telling him he'd been down long enough. Phil didn't want to go back up. He didn't want to face the empty, static air that filled the house above him, the silence that felt like it was choking him from every corner. But he knew he had to. So, with one last glance at the shadows that clung to the boxes and the forgotten corners, he turned to go back up.

He barely made it a few steps before something caught his eye. A flash of metal. Something glinting in the dim light.

His heart skipped, and he immediately dropped to his knees, his hands trembling slightly as they brushed against the cold, hard surface. There, just behind the stack of boxes, was a small tin box-so small, so insignificant, that it almost seemed to be part of the dust. He pulled it out slowly, his fingers scraping against the sharp edges as he turned it over. It was old, the kind of metal that felt worn and scratched, but sturdy. It wasn't locked, but the way the lid opened with a soft, reluctant click made him pause.

Inside, there was a single, small piece of paper, folded so neatly it almost looked too delicate to touch. Phil's breath caught as he carefully unfolded it, the creases pulling at the edges as he flattened it in his hands. His eyes scanned the words, and his fingers began to tremble more, a chill crawling down his spine as the sentences on the page seemed to slip into him, their meaning crawling beneath his skin.

It wasn't anything extraordinary. Just a note. A small piece of paper with a few words, but the weight of it hit him in a way he couldn't explain. Like he'd just uncovered a secret, something buried too long and too deep for anyone to ever remember. Something that had no business being here in the dark corners of this house.

He looked at the paper in his hand, then back at the stairs, and for a moment, the shadows seemed to grow longer again, stretching toward him like they were waiting for him to leave. Or maybe they were waiting for him to stay.

Phil didn't know. But the basement had swallowed his mind whole, and for the first time, he didn't want to be anywhere but here-where the past still clung to the dust, and where the things forgotten could still be uncovered.

And with that, he slid the note into his pocket, the weight of it heavy against his chest. He stood still for a moment, listening to the furnace's hum in the corner of the basement, the dust motes swirling lazily in the weak light from the overhead bulb. But something gnawed at him, the feeling that there was more. More to this box, to this basement, to this house that felt so full of untold stories and forgotten corners.

His heart beat heavier now, the thud of it almost drowning out the soft groan of the house as it settled. There was something in him-some tug-telling him to keep looking. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the way the basement felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for him to make the next move.

He pushed the box aside, more forcefully than he meant to, his knees scraping the cold floor as he shifted everything aside. More dust stirred up, floating around his face in little clouds, making him sneeze and rub his nose. The remnants of forgotten things-the junk-piled higher as he moved deeper into the clutter. His eyes scanned over the remnants of broken lamps, cracked picture frames, and rusted tools, none of it seeming important or meaningful. But his fingers-his fingers were reaching out on their own, brushing against the edges of old photo albums, yellowing books, and letters that had long ago lost their connection to whoever had written them.

And then he found it.

The bundle of letters was buried under a pile of faded cloth, a scarf, or maybe a towel, and they were tied together with a piece of fraying string. The paper was yellowed with age, the edges curling and fragile, like they could crumble to dust in his hands if he wasn't careful. The handwriting on the outside of the letters was scrawled in an unfamiliar but neat hand-delicate loops, ink slightly faded, like it had been written a long time ago, but the words had been sealed in time, waiting to be discovered.

Phil felt a strange mixture of unease and curiosity grip him as he gently untied the string, the motion careful and deliberate, as if the letters might somehow break free and reveal something he wasn't ready for. He held them close to his chest for a moment, feeling the weight of them, and then-without fully understanding why-he opened the first one.

The paper was thin, fragile, and it crackled slightly as he unfolded it. A scent of old paper and something faintly floral wafted up, almost overpowering the musty air of the basement. Phil ran his fingers over the delicate folds before letting his eyes settle on the faded ink. The first line seemed almost too familiar, like a memory he hadn't lived.

"My dearest Haruka,
The days grow long without you, and I find myself tracing the same roads we walked together, wishing I could turn back the time and hold your hand once more..."

The words felt heavy in his chest, like the simple phrases carried a thousand unspoken emotions. Phil's eyes moved down the page, and the longer he read, the more he felt the weight of something bigger-something deep. This wasn't just some old love letter. This was a story of longing, of distance, of something unresolved, left behind like the dust on the boxes around him.

"The world moves on, but my heart cannot. It remains with you, trapped between the seasons, waiting for the day when I can see your smile again."

The ink seemed to bleed into the page in some places, the words blurring, making him squint and refocus. But it wasn't just the ink; it was the longing that bled through the lines, pulling at him in a way he couldn't explain. This wasn't just a letter. It was something more-a story left unfinished, a love story hidden away for decades, waiting in a basement beneath old photographs and forgotten furniture.

Phil felt an odd mixture of guilt and fascination as he continued to read. He didn't even know who this letter was for, but somehow, the words spoke to him. The same sense of waiting. The same kind of ache. He wondered-no, needed to know-how this letter had ended up here, tucked in the corner of his grandparents' basement, buried under all the things they'd accumulated over the years. What had happened to the sender? What had happened to the person it was meant for?

The letter ended, simply and painfully, with a signature he couldn't fully make out-maybe it was the fading ink, or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks. But the name Haruka stuck with him, echoing in his mind.

Phil folded the letter carefully, slowly, and put it back in the pile. The rest of the letters lay there, untouched, their edges just as fragile, just as forgotten. His mind swirled with thoughts he couldn't articulate. He looked around the basement-suddenly feeling as though he were no longer alone down here, as though the past had quietly crept back into the room with him, watching, waiting. The shadows seemed to grow a little longer, and the hum of the furnace sounded too loud now. The walls felt too close. Too alive.

Phil shivered, clutching the letters in his hand, but the weight of them no longer felt like a secret that he should uncover. It felt like a burden, like he had pulled something out from where it had been buried for too long, and now there was no turning back.

Before he could second-guess himself, he tucked the letters under his arm, stood up, and walked back toward the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. The basement didn't seem so quiet now. The shadows seemed darker, but the house? The house was still the same. Still full of memories that could never be erased, buried under layers of dust and old things, left behind but never quite gone.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, his feet heavy and reluctant to leave the attic's air, Phil's fingers grazed over the edges of the letters one more time. There was a strange heaviness in the air, a tension that hadn't been there before. It was as though the house itself had shifted, taken on a new life, and was watching him-waiting for him to make the next move.

He could hear the faint noise of the old clock ticking somewhere in the house, a sound that had always been there, but now felt more oppressive than before. The house, too, seemed to be holding its breath. Phil didn't know why, but his mind kept returning to that name: Haruka. It echoed in his thoughts, the sound strange but oddly familiar, like a memory he hadn't lived. The letters-who were they really for? Was his grandfather involved? Was there a story here, buried in layers of dust and time, that had somehow slipped between his family's stories?

He shook his head, his mind racing. No, no. He was overthinking this. It was just a letter-just some romantic nonsense from a long time ago. No reason to get tangled up in it. His hand tightened around the letters, and he started to head toward the stairs, deciding it was time to put them away, pretend like he hadn't read them. He didn't want to bring this up to anyone-not to his family, not to his grandparents. They didn't need to know.

But as he turned, his eyes flickered over the hallway that led to the kitchen. His grandmother's voice echoed in his mind, the way she used to speak about the house, the way she always said it was full of memories-memories, but nothing worth digging up. Her warning rang out louder now: Some things are better left in the past.

He almost hesitated, but then a laugh escaped him-a small, quiet thing that sounded out of place in the otherwise silent house. He was acting like some sort of detective, wasn't he? A detective in a mystery novel. But this wasn't a story-this was real. And real life didn't need to be complicated by old letters and half-finished love stories.

Still, something gnawed at him. Haruka. The name lingered in the back of his mind, almost taunting him, demanding answers. He tried to shake it off, but he couldn't. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to know. Who had written those letters? Why had they been left here? Was it a story his grandfather had tried to forget, or had he simply never spoken of it?

A sudden shift in the air, a creak from somewhere in the house, made him freeze in place. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The house, with all its creaks and groans, had never felt so alive-so aware. He glanced around the hallway, half-expecting someone to be standing in the doorway, watching him, as if he were being caught in the act of something forbidden. But there was no one. Only the same quiet, dimly lit rooms.

Phil's grip on the letters loosened slightly, and he walked toward the kitchen, his feet heavy, slow. He glanced down at the letters one last time, the weight of them feeling somehow different. They were no longer just pieces of paper. They were something more. Each word he'd read, each line he'd absorbed, felt like an anchor to a story-one that wasn't his to tell.

The kitchen was empty, the silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. Phil stepped closer to the counter, placing the letters down with the intention of keeping them hidden, keeping them locked away with the other forgotten things. But before he could turn away, he caught sight of the family photo on the wall, his parents' smiling faces frozen in time. The past wasn't something you could just ignore, was it? The house had its stories, and they had a way of coming to the surface when you least expected it.

He exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the letters slip from his fingers as he laid them down on the counter. His mind was a whirlwind of questions, but no answers came. His family's past felt closer than it ever had, like it was there-hovering in the air just beyond his reach.

Phil stood still for a long moment, staring at the letters, before he turned toward the door. He didn't know what to do with this newfound knowledge, this secret he'd stumbled upon. Maybe it was better to let it be. But even as he closed the door behind him, he knew the house wasn't done with him yet. There was more waiting beneath the surface, more things locked away in the shadows. And somehow, Phil knew that sooner or later, the truth would come looking for him.

As he stepped into the hallway, the soft tick of the clock echoed louder than before, the sound growing more insistent, more relentless. He glanced back once more at the kitchen, feeling the pull of the letters, the tug of the past. But it wasn't just curiosity that was pulling him. It was something deeper, something that would follow him, whether he wanted it to or not.

And for the first time in a long time, Phil couldn't help but wonder-what other secrets were hidden in the walls of this house?

Author's note !!!!
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