From that day on, the hands of the clock began to turn backward. The clock tower, crowned with a massive timepiece, towered over the center of the town as if watching over its people. It was the town’s symbol. Yet, from a certain point onward, the hands would inexplicably start spinning in reverse. Every time someone noticed, the townspeople would work together to fix it. With every repair, they tilted their heads in confusion. There were no malfunctions to be found—everything was perfect, except for the fact that the hands were moving backward.
One night, I was out drinking late with a friend. We had already hit three bars and were headed for a fourth. Before I knew it, we had reached the clock tower, walking with our arms around each other’s shoulders. The air outside was humid, and I took off my jacket. Suddenly, I spotted a strange, small silhouette in the shadow of the tower. Intrigued, I squinted through the gloom and watched as the figure was swallowed into the tower. I slipped my arm away from my friend, handed him my jacket, and wobbled toward the spot where the shadow had vanished. My friend collapsed on the spot and fell fast asleep on the roadside. Lighting my lighter to illuminate the area where the shadow had disappeared, I found the door slightly ajar. Though my head was hazy from the alcohol, I stepped inside with reasonably cautious footing.
The interior was chilly, with a spiral staircase winding upward. I heard a faint noise coming from above. Perhaps it was the temperature, the sound, or the tension they created together, but my head began to clear. I started climbing the stairs slowly, trying to remain as silent as possible. As I approached the top, the noise grew louder. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, so I flicked off my lighter. Just then, a voice echoed from above.
“Hey, brother, didn’t you hear something just now?”
“What are you talking about? If we don’t hurry and turn these hands back, the time won’t be inaccurate, will it?”
“What on earth are you two doing there?”
The brothers jumped in surprise. I had already reached the top of the stairs and was staring straight at the mischievous pair. The one who seemed to be the younger brother whispered in a frantic, wailing tone.
“I’m sorry! Don’t blame my brother. It’s my fault! It’s because I can’t fix my habit of being late.”
“Stupid! What are you saying? Don’t be so honest!”
I glared at the brothers in anger. “You two… did you try to cover up your tardiness by turning back the hands of the clock?”
The brothers hung their heads and nodded.
“You fools!”
Startled by my roar, the brothers slipped past me in an instant and bolted away. I tried to catch them, but the lingering alcohol made me stumble, and my hands grasped only thin air. Once I regained my balance, I chased after them down the stairs. When I stepped outside, my friend had woken up—and had vomited all over my jacket.
“Hey, you!”
I called out, and my friend looked up, his face pale.
“Sorry. I guess there’s no use crying over spilled milk,” he said, then collapsed once more.
Dumbfounded, I stood there speechless for a while. I let out a deep sigh. Looking back at the clock tower, the hands were still moving in reverse. I decided to leave it be and carried my friend toward home.
