For eighteen years, clocks had always betrayed Lance Weaver. His mother''s ancient wristwatch lost exactly two minutes each day. The microwave at home ran forty seconds fast. The dashboard clock in her minivan hadn’t been right since daylight savings in 2019. Now, as the same minivan wound its way through the late August morning, carrying him away from everything familiar, he couldn’t stop glancing at those mocking green digits.


    8:47 AM. Or 8:32 AM if you believed his phone. They were either comfortably early or dangerously late for move-in day at Greylock University. Lance ran a hand through his perpetually disheveled dark hair, a nervous habit he couldn’t break.


    The countryside rolled past in waves of golden cornfields and patches of dense forest, touched by the first hints of autumn. Lance pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching his breath create expanding circles of fog. Meridian City had long disappeared in the rearview mirror, replaced by rural emptiness that made his stomach flutter with excitement and dread. The radio''s faint crackle of pop songs merged with the distant hum of early morning traffic.


    "Did you remember to pack your winter coat?" his mom asked, both hands gripping the steering wheel. Her silver watch glinted in the morning sun, its face two minutes behind the rest of the world. The watch, a graduation gift from Lance''s father before he left twelve years ago, still adorned her wrist daily.


    "Yeah, Mom. It''s in one of the boxes in back," he replied, gesturing toward the tetris puzzle of cardboard boxes and plastic bins filling the minivan''s cargo space. He had packed his entire life into weatherproof containers labeled with his mother''s neat handwriting.


    "Are you sure? Because the winters up here can be brutal, and—"


    "Mom," Lance interrupted gently, "you already asked me about the coat five minutes ago." The words felt strange, like déjà vu but stronger.


    She laughed, tucking a strand of graying hair behind her ear, a nervous habit he''d recognized since childhood. The morning sun caught the silver threads in her dark hair, making them shimmer subtly. "Did I? Sorry, honey. I guess I''m more anxious about this than I thought."


    Lance frowned, something nagging at the edges of his memory. Hadn''t she tucked her hair back just a moment ago? And hadn''t they just passed that distinctive red barn with the fading Mail Pouch Tobacco advertisement? The weathered wood flickered in his peripheral vision, peeling paint shimmering like a skipping DVD.


    He shook his head, blaming it on lack of sleep making time feel sticky and strange. He’d barely closed his eyes last night, too busy triple-checking packing lists and scrolling through Greylock University''s orientation materials for the hundredth time. His laptop''s screen had burned afterimages into his vision until well past midnight.


    "You''re going to do great," his mom said softly, as if reading his thoughts. "You earned this, Lance. The scholarship, the acceptance—all of it." Her voice carried the weight of countless late nights at the hospital, brown-bag lunches, postponed vacations, and everything she''d sacrificed to get him here.


    He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The scholarship was only partial, and he knew exactly how many extra shifts she''d picked up to make up the difference. Every mile marker they passed seemed to echo the hours she’d spent juggling work and his needs. He''d caught fragments of her conversation with the credit card company the previous week, a discussion she''d kept to herself.


    The GPS chimed its directive, and Lance''s pulse quickened as Greylock''s iconic clock tower emerged against the distant skyline. The Gothic spire soared above the treeline like a sentinel from another era, its four clock faces gleaming in the morning light. As they drew closer, the rest of the campus revealed itself: red brick buildings draped in ivy, pristine lawns dotted with ancient oaks, and the ultra-modern glass facade of the Morrison Media Center reflecting sunlight like a digital artwork.


    "Oh, wow," his mom breathed, her fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the steering wheel, echoing her watch''s steady pulse.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Lance nodded, but something about the view made his head swim. He could have sworn they’d just crested this hill and seen this first glimpse of the tower. The sensation passed quickly, replaced by the flutter of butterflies in his stomach as they turned onto University Drive.


    The campus buzzed with move-in day chaos. Parents'' cars lined the curved driveways, hazard lights blinking in synchronized Morse code. Upperclassmen in matching navy blue T-shirts directed traffic with the authority of air traffic controllers, their "Welcome to Greylock!" enthusiasm almost aggressively cheerful. Lance spotted his destination—Blackwood Hall—rising like a medieval castle complete with gargoyles perched along its gutters, their stone faces worn smooth by decades of rain and snow.


    "Remember your room number?" his mom asked, navigating the maze of vehicles and dodging students wheeling overloaded dollies across the parking lot.


    "317," Lance replied automatically. "Third floor, north wing." He’d memorized every detail of the housing assignment email, right down to his roommate''s name: Reid Sawyer, from the Lake View neighborhood of Meridian City. He wondered if Reid was already here, if he’d claimed the better desk or the bed farther from the radiator.


    They found a spot to park, and Lance stepped into the crisp morning air carrying hints of cut grass and autumn leaves. The clock tower loomed overhead, its shadow stretching across the quad like a sundial. 9:00 AM exactly, according to its faces. His phone still insisted it was 8:55. The discrepancy made his skin prickle uncomfortably.


    The next hour blurred as he carried boxes up three flights of stairs—the elevator was predictably overwhelmed. He met his eerily cheerful RA named Sophie, who spoke entirely in exclamation points, and tried to arrange his half of room 317 into something resembling organized chaos. His mom made his bed with hospital corners despite his protests, arranged his desk supplies with surgical precision, and only cried twice—both times quickly wiped away when she thought he wasn’t looking.


    The room was exactly what he’d expected from a century-old dormitory: high ceilings, thick wooden moldings around the windows, and radiators that clanked ominously. Reid hadn’t arrived yet, so Lance had first choice of everything. He took the bed near the window, hoping the morning sun would help him wake up for his early classes. On his desk, a sketchpad lay neatly placed, a gift from his mother, filled with his digital art designs waiting to be digitized.


    Finally, they stood in the parking lot next to her minivan, neither quite ready for goodbye. The morning sun had grown stronger, casting sharp shadows across the pavement. Nearby, families enacted their parting ceremonies, soft murmurs of affection and last-minute reminders drifting through the air, mingling with the scent of freshly brewed coffee from a nearby vendor.


    "Drop a line once you''re all set," she murmured, wrapping him in an embrace that carried the soft, lingering scent of her lavender shampoo. "And don''t forget to eat actual vegetables sometimes. And—"


    "Mom," Lance laughed, hugging her back tightly, trying to memorize the moment. "I''ll be fine. I promise."


    She brushed away tears with the heel of her palm, giving a slight nod. "I know you will. I''m so proud of you, honey."


    Then she was in the car, waving as she pulled away. Lance stood on the steps of Blackwood Hall, watching the minivan disappear down University Drive. Then he watched her pull away again. And again. Each time, the massive clock tower above him struck 10:00 AM with perfect, impossible precision, its bells resonating through his bones.


    The bells rippled through him, making his vision blur at the edges. He caught his mother tucking her hair back, waving farewell, the minivan turning away—the scene repeating as if caught in a glitching frame. The fleeting moment passed quickly, yet it unmoored him completely, his perception splintering like a kaleidoscope’s shifting pattern.


    He squeezed his eyes shut, chalking it up to weary nerves and emotional depletion. Everyone gets weird when saying goodbye to their parents at college, right? That’s all this was—stress and anxiety playing tricks on his tired mind.


    A cool breeze rustled the quad''s oak trees, carrying the sounds of families saying their goodbyes, car doors slamming, and wheels crunching on pavement. Lance turned back toward Blackwood Hall, its ancient stones both welcoming and imposing. Above the carved wooden doors, a stone raven watched with gleaming eyes, its beak worn smooth by generations of students seeking luck.


    His phone buzzed—a text from his mom saying she already missed him, complete with three heart emojis. The message showed 10:15 AM. The clock tower insisted it was still exactly 10:00, its hands frozen like they were holding their breath, waiting for something to begin.


    Lance shoved his phone into his pocket and headed inside, ignoring the feeling that time itself was watching him through the tower''s four identical faces. He had unpacking to do, a roommate to meet, and a new life to begin. Whatever strange tricks his anxiety was playing on him could wait.


    As he ascended to the third floor, a haunting familiarity gripped him—as if this moment were both remembered and yet to come. The clock tower struck 10:00 AM once more, its bells echoing through empty corridors, counting out the beats of a moment that refused to end.