~ -60D ~
"So boring..." muttered a man standing behind a counter, meticulously repairing a clock. Metal parts and tiny gears were scattered across his desk like puzzle pieces waiting for purpose.
He was skilled—every motion deliberate, as though each flick of his wrist held a hidden meaning. His breathing was so controlled it felt like he no longer needed air. You could hear a mosquito fly before you'd hear him exhale.
Silently, he worked in the quietest street in town. No footsteps echoed on the steady old tiles outside. Yet, sunlight filtered through the window in flecks, like magic sprinkled from the sky. It was a still, frozen moment—until she walked in.
A woman dressed like a princess stepped into the clock shop. She held a leather bag, light in weight and even lighter in emotion.
"H-Hello?" she murmured, her voice like wind brushing through lace curtains.
"May I help you with anything, ma'am?" asked the man, not even lifting his head. He stayed hidden behind his tools, focused on the delicate gears he adjusted.
"Um… can you fix this clock?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. The shop's tranquil silence seemed too sacred to disturb.
She placed the clock on the counter. It wasn't broken—just scratched. But strangely, its hands had stopped at 12:60.
The man stared at the clock for a few moments before responding. "I can try," he said, his voice dim but clear.
"Oh, that would be great. Thanks," she said, and quietly took a seat in a nearby chair.
"Are you in a hurry?" the man asked, still focused on the clock he had been fixing before.
"Not really. Will that be a problem?" she asked, pulling out a small canvas and a set of paintbrushes from her bag.
"No. It's just… this will take about seven hours. If you were in a hurry, I'd suggest coming back tomorrow," the man replied, now beginning to disassemble the mysterious clock.
"No worries. Time flies when I paint," she smiled softly, drawing her first stroke.
"That's good," he said, and returned to his work.
The woman looked radiant. Her soft red cheeks glowed, and her black dress shimmered under the scattered sunlight. Her painting strokes were quiet but precise, almost meditative. She looked as though she belonged in a painting herself.
The man, by contrast, had nothing to offer but silence. He lacked emotion, lacked expression—as if his soul had forgotten how to feel. And honestly, that wasn't far from the truth.
Once, he had a fiancée. But fate played a cruel trick, and she died just a day before their wedding. Since then, he clung to that tragedy, like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood.
He hadn't allowed himself to feel anything for anyone since. Even if the woman before him was more beautiful than his late fiancée—he simply didn't care. Love? Family? He no longer understood the meaning.
Hours passed in silence—so fast they might as well have never existed.
"Hey, it's… not fixed," he said as he handed her the clock.
"Oh! I understand," she replied, setting her brush down and taking it in her hands.
"This clock is just too old to repair properly," he explained. "The time will now go backward—one minute a day until it reaches 12:00. That's the best I could manage."
He handed her a small card.
"Hey, wait… What's your name?" she asked, gripping the clock tightly.
"Me? It's Shyam," he said, packing his tools like a disciplined craftsman.
"Well, I'm Raitha. Bye now," she said, walking away with a strange kind of giddiness in her step, as if she were keeping a secret even from herself.
"Shyam, huh?" she murmured once she sat in the black car waiting outside. Then it rolled away.
---
~ Several Invitations -55D ~
A few days later, Shyam was back to doing what he always did—immersed in work. But then, the door creaked open again.
It was her.
Raitha stepped in, this time without her bag, but with the same look on her face—that spark, like someone meeting their favorite person again after too long, though it had only been a few days.
Shyam had nearly forgotten her already. To him, she was just another customer.
But to her? He was far more than just a clock fixer.
"Hey!" she chirped, dropping herself into the same chair as before, eyes fixed on him.
"May I help you with something, ma'am?" Shyam asked, repeating his usual line.
Raitha grinned. "Fall for me," she whispered.
Though her voice was quieter than a moth's flutter, it struck Shyam like thunder.
His hands froze. His eyes widened. A strange sadness danced behind them, though he tried to mask it.
"Don't joke like that here," he said firmly, setting his tools down and finally looking up.
"I'm not joking," Raitha said, resting her chin on her palms, her face intentionally cute—as if cuteness alone could sway him.
"Then please leave," Shyam replied, voice colder now.
But Raitha didn't move.
Even if the Earth flipped upside down, she wouldn't flinch.
"Listen to me, at least," she said, calm and composed.
Shyam hesitated. Her control was almost hypnotic. Eventually, he sat back down, still breathing heavily, and nodded. "Alright… Maybe I overreacted. Go ahead."
"I want you," she said, pointing dramatically, "to tell me colors."
Shyam blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I can't see all colors," Raitha replied. "I need someone to help me identify the ones I paint. That's all."
She tried to make it sound cheerful, but Shyam could sense the grief behind it. That kind of loss wasn't easy to carry. And he understood it—he knew exactly what it was like to lack something that could never be replaced.
He couldn't say no.
"If that's all, I'll help. But don't distract me too much," he said.
"Okie dokie!" she smiled, pulling out her canvas again.
From that day forward, they developed a strange, quiet routine. She painted, and he told her where to use which colors. Within a week, they were sharing stories they hadn't told anyone else—secrets buried deeper than the roots of old trees.
Or so Shyam thought.
Raitha still held her greatest secret close to her heart.
---
~ Love Me -34D ~
"I love you."
That afternoon, she whispered it while painting a green leaf stuck on the clock—her old clock. It showed 12:34.
Shyam blinked. Surely he'd misheard?
"I didn't quite catch that," he stammered. "Could you say it again?"
"I said I love you. Heard it this time?"
His body flinched as if the words hit his chest like bricks. At first, he wanted to believe it was a joke or some kind of misunderstanding.
"What… What kind of joke is that!?" he snapped.
He had seen his fiancée's body lowered into the earth. Heard the thud of dirt hit her coffin lid. Felt the silence that came after. And now—Raitha was saying this?
"Don't ever say something like that again," he warned her.
But she didn't stop.
She kept saying it.
Day after day.
And strangely… after a while, he stopped telling her to stop.
---
~ -7D ~
One night, while lying in bed, a stubborn thought barged into his mind and refused to leave.
Had he started to love again?
He didn't want to believe it. He had worked so hard to bury those feelings. Her confessions didn't stir him anymore, nor did her smile.
And yet…
On days she didn't come to the shop, he felt… empty. Like something vital was missing. Like trying to complete a puzzle with one piece gone forever.
---
~ 0D ~
Raitha hadn't visited in seven days.
"Maybe she's busy," Shyam told himself. Over and over.
Then came the phone call.
"Hello!" he said, a little too eagerly.
But the voice on the other end shattered him.
"Raitha is no more."
A soft, broken voice of a woman—barely able to speak, but somehow still speaking.
Shyam collapsed. His hand searched for something to hold onto. His chest twisted. He wanted to scream but held back.
"Again!?" he yelled.
Not again. Not another woman he cared for.
Not again.
---
Days later, Shyam sat across from the woman who had given him the news—Raitha's mother, Rena Myafu.
He didn't know why he was there, in such an elegant mansion. He always thought Raitha was just a regular woman. She wore simple clothes, rode in an average car.
But today, he learned the truth: she was a noble. One of Brangal's wealthiest, most respected figures.
"Before she died," Rena began, pushing a paper bag toward him, "her final request was for me to give this to you."
"I… I don't understand," Shyam said.
"You must've meant the world to her. Maybe more than I ever did," Rena added, tears streaking her cheeks.
Despite the sadness, she held herself with the grace of royalty. But Shyam could feel the pain behind it. The loss of a daughter is a pain beyond any measurement.
He said nothing and opened the bag.
Inside was a diary, its cover a worn brown like an old spellbook.
And on top—Raitha's clock. The one from sixty-seven days ago.
He opened to the first page.
"January 3rd, 2019 – I got transferred to a new high school today. Everyone's a stranger. I'm terrified."
"January 16th, 2019 – I made a friend! Her name's Alta. She's kind, full of joy… and on a journey to find the meaning of love. I love that about her."
"February 4th, 2019 – I saw a boy near the club rooms today. He was… really handsome. I don't know his name yet, but I think I like him."
— Continued in Borrowed Yesterday: Raitha's Diary
He tried to move on, after losing both woman whom he cared for the most had passed away he no longer needed any emotions.
Two exact months had passed. He yet again stood behind his desk fixing a clock that showed 12:00 on it. Metal parts and tiny gears were scattered across his desk like puzzle pieces waiting for purpose.
He was skilled—every motion deliberate, as though each flick of his wrist held a hidden meaning. His breathing was so controlled it felt like he no longer needed air. You could hear a mosquito fly before you'd hear him exhale.
Silently, he worked in the quietest street in town. No footsteps echoed on the steady old tiles outside. Yet, sunlight filtered through the window in flecks, like magic sprinkled from the sky. It was a still, frozen moment—until she walked in.
A woman dressed like a princess stepped into the clock shop. She held a leather bag, light in weight and even lighter in emotion.
"H-Hello?" she murmured, her voice like wind brushing through lace curtains.
"May I help you with anything, ma'am?" asked the man, not even lifting his head. He stayed hidden behind his tools, focused on the delicate gears he adjusted.
"Um… can you fix this clock?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. The shop's tranquil silence seemed too sacred to disturb.
She placed the clock on the counter. It wasn't broken—just scratched. But strangely, its hands had stopped at 12:60.
Shyam's eyes widened just after seeing the clock the woman had brought to fix. He looked up terrified.
Raitha. Same moment, shame dress, shame environment everything was perfectly mirrored.
Just like a dream that played again and again.
" What the hell! " He shout.
---
Writer – Dhoben
Published by – noobBooks studio
A Noobsuper's HQ Studios story
Published on – Webnovel: Tampr