There’s a danger in believing there’s no cost to actions. For eight chapters, the clock has offered Lira and the Clockmaker something close to magic—a clean reset, a silent undoing, a way to feel without consequence. But time has never really been consequence-free. It only pretended to be.
In Chapter 9 of The Clockmaker’s Rewind, that illusion finally snaps. The story, and the characters, press too far. And so does the quiet lie they’ve been telling themselves: that they can touch fire and never burn.
The prose deliberately changes in this chapter as a result. Sentences shorten. Paragraphs break more often. The lyrical cadence of earlier chapters gives way to sharp breath and urgency. It’s not just about speed—it’s about control, and what’s lost when it slips. So as the characters come apart, so does the narrative rhythm. The structure of the writing itself begins to mirror the strain.
When I first started writing this, there was always going to be a moment when the clock gave out. Here the clock breaks, but the moment holds. Not tragic, not redemptive. Just real.
And after this, what will they do when nothing resets again?
– Eric