Short Story: Time Thieves
Something strange is happening. And if it’s been happening for as long as I think, what’s really strange is that no one has noticed.
I’m getting ahead of myself—let’s start at the beginning. Not the face of God upon the waters beginning, but an average Tuesday morning in the twenty-fourth year of the twenty-first century, on the seventh floor of the Harmony condominium complex in the Tarumi ward of Kobe city.
A forty-two-year-old man named Winston looks at the clock; it reads 6:32. He showers, glances back at the clock, and sees that fifteen minutes have passed. He didn’t feel like he’d spent that long in the shower, but he shrugs it off and moves to the sink to brush his teeth. Afterward, he checks the clock again. It’s now 7:01—nine minutes have elapsed. Something feels off.
For twenty-seven years, six months, and three days, Winston’s morning routine has been practically the same. It’s never taken this long for these basic activities. He’d gone to bed at a reasonable hour and slept well, yet here he is, staring at the clock in disbelief for what feels like an eternity. But the clock appears to be functioning normally—it only advances by two minutes while he watches. He nods to himself and walks away, trying to hide his growing unease.
Winston’s mind races. It usually takes him two minutes to brush his teeth; his body’s on autopilot, a well-trained machine. He even tried pretending to brush his teeth while watching the clock, and it took the usual time. But every time he looks away, more time seems to have vanished. This needs further investigation. He’s certain that if he told anyone, they’d think he was crazy.
In a cramped control room somewhere, two shadowy figures bicker.
“You took too much!” one of them hisses.
“He didn’t notice a thing! He’s getting dressed like normal,” the other replies.
Something strange is happening. And if it’s been happening for as long as I think, what’s really strange is that no one has noticed.
It’s an average Friday morning in the twenty-seventh year of the twenty-first century, on the thirteenth floor of The Venetian apartment building in the 11th ward of Tokyo city. Shimizu looks at the clock, his face was stone carved dread. He fears it may be his last glance. Every time he looks away, time advances beyond what’s logically possible, and his body struggles to keep up. A two-second walk to the fridge has become a three-hour journey into madness. He’s starving and dehydrated, having run out of food days ago. His eyes involuntarily start closing, heavy with exhaustion.
In a small control room, two voices argue.
“We shouldn’t be doing this—if we take any more, he’ll die!” grumbles a shadowy figure.
“And if we don’t take any more, he’ll talk! We’re in this together—there’s no turning back now,” answers another.
The door to the control room slides open, and Winston steps in, casting a shadow over them.
“Got time for an audit, boys?” he says, as the figures turn, now illuminated by the harsh hallway light spilling into the room.