The city outside Salem's window looked… wrong. Not in a "glitch" kind of way, though the flickers along the edges of buildings suggested otherwise. No, this was subtler. Time itself seemed to have settled into an odd rhythm, like a heartbeat someone had intentionally slowed down. People walked, but their steps echoed faintly, as if the world were aware of its own ticking.
Salem rubbed his eyes. "Great. Another day… or hour… or whatever this is."
A soft chime rang in his ears, like a tiny bell suspended somewhere deep in the folds of reality. He turned and froze. The bell had a source—or rather, a presence. Floating above his desk was a small, brass pocket watch. Its hands spun wildly, clockwise then counterclockwise, leaving faint trails of glittering light in the air.
"Oh no," he muttered, stepping back.
The watch clicked audibly, louder now, like it had a voice. And then it spoke.
"Tick-tock, Salem. You're late… and early… and everything in between."
Salem blinked. "Are you… talking to me?"
"Of course I am. Who else would I talk to? The dust on your shelf?"
Salem scowled. "I'm not even sure if I'm awake or dead or—"
"Spoiler: You're awake. But barely. And technically, you're in three places at once. A multiversal mess, really. Don't take it personally."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Three places. Makes sense. Not."
The watch floated closer, spinning like it had its own chaotic gravity. Tiny gears and springs peeked from its edges, impossible to identify, but beautiful in their wrongness. The bell's chime pulsed in time with the spinning, and Salem could swear he felt it tugging at his memory.
"Feeling disoriented?"
Salem muttered, "Just a tad."
"Good. That's the plan. A little chaos before the main act. And yes, I'm the act."
He backed away, tripping over his chair. "Why do I even bother questioning things anymore?"
"Because you like it. Admit it."
Salem froze. The truth stung. "Maybe… maybe I do."
"See? That wasn't so hard. Now, onward!"
The watch clicked rapidly. The air shimmered, then split like a curtain, revealing a street he didn't recognize. Neon signs hummed in colors that shouldn't exist. A ferris wheel spun slowly in the distance, each carriage shaped like a miniature clock. Carnival music played, but warped—twice as fast, then impossibly slow, then completely silent.
Salem stepped through the curtain, his shoes crunching on cobblestones that felt like a mixture of glass and jelly. A smell hit him—cotton candy and ozone, like a storm trapped in a fairground.
"Welcome to the Clockwork Carnival," said a voice, dripping with glee.
He whirled around. No one there. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"You're early, but not really. You're late, but not enough. And yes, you'll understand all of this eventually. Or maybe you won't. Fun either way."
Salem sighed. "I guess I'll take the second option. What's new?"
From behind a tent, a carousel emerged. The horses were skeletal, their eyes hollow but glowing faintly with tick-tock patterns. Each rotation left a faint echo of another carousel, spinning in another layer of the carnival. Salem shivered.
"Want a ride?"
Salem raised an eyebrow. "No thanks. I'd rather not get stuck in a metaphysical merry-go-round."
"Suit yourself. But don't blame me when the Ferris wheel starts reading your thoughts."
He glanced toward it. Each carriage rotated slowly, a figure inside each, vaguely familiar. Faces from skipped days, half-remembered conversations, memories he wasn't sure he owned. The Ferris wheel groaned as it turned, an unsettling mechanical sigh.
"Looks like fun," Salem muttered.
"Fun is relative. Pain is optional. Chaos is mandatory."
The ground shifted beneath him suddenly, making him stumble forward. When he looked down, the cobblestones were replaced with floating clock faces, each showing a different time. Some spun backwards. Others split into fractals of smaller clocks.
"Ah, you've noticed the ground," said the watch, now hovering inches from his face. "Most people miss it entirely."
Salem squinted. "Most people aren't me."
"Exactly. That's why you're here. Not just here, technically. Everywhere. Or every-when."
A carnival barker appeared beside him, top hat crooked, smile too wide. "Step right up! See the impossible! Touch the untouchable! Ride the ride that doesn't exist!"
Salem froze. The barker tilted his head. "Wait… are you… real?"
"Define real. Oh, and yes, I do enjoy breaking physics for fun."
Salem pinched the bridge of his nose again. "You're all insane."
"Exactly. And you're perfect for it."
The Ferris wheel groaned louder. A carriage opened, revealing… Salem. Older. Wiser? Scarred in places that didn't make sense. Eyes full of exhaustion and strange amusement.
"Don't. Make. Eye contact," said the watch. "Or you'll start questioning which Salem you are."
Salem blinked. "Already doing that."
"Excellent. Progress!"
The carnival music changed again, warping into a song that felt like his own heartbeat. Shadows stretched from the tents, forming shapes that mirrored his own fears and desires. They whispered, sometimes in sync, sometimes in a rhythm just slightly off.
"These are… echoes?" he asked.
"Fragments. Drafts. Possibilities. Futures you may or may not have. Or maybe pasts. Really depends on when you ask."
Salem groaned. "I hate when you're cryptic."
"Hate is the wrong word. Love is closer. But sure. Hints of hate are good for character development."
The carousel horses creaked, and a skeletal one suddenly lunged. Not to attack, but to bow. A tiny brass plaque hung from its neck: Time waits for no one… but entertains all.
Salem blinked. "I feel like I'm missing the point."
"That's the fun part. The point is optional. Perspective is negotiable. Rules are irrelevant."
A booth appeared out of thin air, staffed by a creature that seemed to be made of ink and smoke. It handed him a ticket. The ticket read: One ride, all timelines, no returns.
"Do I take it?" Salem asked the watch.
"Oh, absolutely. But do know, once you step on, you'll never see time the same way. Or maybe you'll see it too much."
He glanced at the Ferris wheel again. The carriage with his older self beckoned. Somehow… knowingly.
"Adventure is mandatory," whispered the watch.
Salem exhaled, tightened his fists, and stepped forward.
The moment he touched the carriage, the carnival dissolved. The cobblestones, the carousel, the tents, the music—they all melted into a whirl of numbers, gears, and fractured time. Voices overlapped: memories, possibilities, and whispers of choices yet to come.
He laughed. Or maybe he screamed. Hard to tell, since the two sounded identical in this place.
"Welcome to the ride of your life," said the watch, voice merging with the wind and gears. "Buckle up, Salem. The carnival has only begun."
The Ferris wheel spun faster. The carriage lifted into the fractal sky. And Salem Grey, protagonist, traveler, breaker of walls, stepped fully into the chaos that awaited him: the infinite, unpredictable, and strangely hilarious web of time.
The Ferris wheel spun faster. The carriage lifted into the fractal sky. Salem Grey, protagonist, traveler, breaker of walls, stepped fully into the chaos that awaited him: the infinite, unpredictable, and strangely hilarious web of time.
And then—suddenly—the carriage jolted. A voice, deeper than the watch, colder than the shadows, echoed inside his skull:
"You shouldn't have come here… Salem."
Everything froze. The fractured sky cracked open like glass, revealing… someone—or something—watching him from the other side.
Salem's breath caught. His heart pounded. He tried to move, but his limbs were heavy, unresponsive, as if the air itself was holding him in place.
The Ferris wheel ground to a halt mid-spin. The skeletal horses below began to twitch, eyes glowing brighter, teeth gnashing silently.
And then, a single line of glowing text appeared across the fractured sky:
"Your next choice… will not be yours."
Salem's fingers clenched, but it was too late. The sky shattered, and everything went black.