June 9th, 1999
Morning stirred gently in the village. A quiet hum of life began to rise from behind closed doors and thin walls—mothers calling to children, kettles hissing, and the occasional bark of a dog echoing across the narrow streets. People moved in rhythm with their daily rituals, unaware that for one house, this day would begin very differently.
Just on the outskirts of the village, in a house much like any other, something felt... off. The walls held a strange stillness, almost as if the air inside were waiting. A wall clock ticked loudly in the silence, each second amplified by the hush that lingered, the sound echoing into every corner of the home.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
In the kitchen, the sharp scent of onions filled the air. A woman stood at the counter, rhythmically slicing them as steam rose from a pot beside her. Her expression was calm but distant, her hands moving with practiced ease as she cooked.
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps came tumbling down the stairs.
A little girl, no older than nine, burst into the kitchen, her bare feet skidding slightly on the wooden floor. Her voice rang out with breathless excitement.
"Mom! Mom! What are you making for breakfast today?!"
The woman turned slightly, brushing her hands on her apron. Her voice was soft, but her eyes drifted past the girl. "Where's your big brother? He's not awake yet?"
The girl scrunched her nose, thinking. "Maybe he's still sleeping in his bed. Like a dead person!"
"Hey," the mother snapped gently, not unkindly. "Don't say things like that. It's bad luck, sweetie."
She turned fully now, the knife resting beside the cutting board. "Do something for me. Go wake him up upstairs, alright? If he doesn't answer, knock louder. And if he still doesn't get up, call me. I'll deal with him myself."
The little girl raised her hand in a playful salute. "Yes, ma'am!" she chirped, already dashing off toward the staircase.
The woman sighed, half-laughing under her breath. "These kids are going to be late for school..."
Upstairs, the room was dark. The curtains were drawn, allowing only a faint thread of gray morning light to slip through. On the bed, a boy lay still. His face was twisted in discomfort, his skin damp with sweat. His body trembled slightly, as if caught in the grip of something far deeper than a dream.
In his sleep, all he could hear was the relentless ticking.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Each sound slammed against his mind like a hammer. Louder. Sharper. Unescapable.
And then—
"Wake up, Brother Ethan!!"
The boy jerked awake, gasping for air, as if dragged violently from underwater. His face was pale, drenched in sweat. Eyes wide, he looked toward the door, where someone was knocking rapidly.
"Brother! Wake up or I'm telling Mom you're still not up! Hey! We're gonna be late for school, jeez!"
Ethan groaned, his voice rasping as he shouted back, "I'm up! I'm up, Anna! Stop yelling! Tell Mom I'm coming!"
He waited for a response, but all he heard was the sound of little feet running back down the hallway.
"That girl," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Full of energy every damn morning…"
He looked down at his soaked shirt, frowning. "God, I'm sweating like crazy… and my head feels like it's been crushed. What the hell was that dream?"
Still groggy, Ethan swung his legs off the bed—and immediately felt something cold and sharp bite into the bottom of his foot.
"Shit—what the—?"
He looked down. Blood. A sharp sting. And next to his foot, shattered glass and the curved metal frame of something familiar.
A broken wall clock.
Confused, he stared at it. "Wait… how the hell did this get here?"
His gaze turned toward the wall across the room—where the clock had been mounted. Far from where it now lay.
"No way that thing fell all the way here. Unless someone threw it…"
Before he could think further, his mother's voice rang out from below.
"Ethan! Come down and eat your breakfast!"
"Yeah, Mom! I'm coming!" he called back, still distracted by the strange object at his feet.
Carefully, he cleaned up the shards of glass and tossed them into the trash bin near his desk. He picked up the broken clock, turning it over in his hands. Its hands were frozen—the hour stuck at 6, the minute at 9. The second hand twitched, trying to move, but it clicked in place uselessly.
"Looks like it's busted…"
With a quick toss, he dropped the clock into the trash and made for the door.
"I'm gonna wash up first!" he called out to his mom, his voice fading as he stepped into the hall.
The bedroom door creaked shut behind him.
End of Prologue