Lance stood in the doorway of Room 317, watching dust motes dance in the sunbeam that sliced through the tall window. The room felt both empty and full—devoid of life yet cluttered with cardboard boxes holding his possessions. The ancient radiator beneath the window clicked steadily, marking time in perfect thirty-second intervals that didn’t quite match his phone''s digital seconds counter. Each click echoed through the room''s worn hardwood floors, a mechanical heartbeat that made Lance''s skin crawl with unease.


    He glanced around, the silence amplifying the emptiness. Her absence echoed beyond emotion, carving a palpable emptiness through the landscape of his thoughts. The vacant chair near the window caught his eye, a silent reminder of her morning ritual—newspaper spread out, teacup in hand. Her favorite mug still sat on the side table, untouched and gathering dust.


    Lance moved to unpack his first box but found himself drawn to the window instead. From the third floor, he could see most of the quad, still bustling with move-in day activity. Parents and students scurried about like ants, their voices carrying up as indistinct murmurs. The clock tower dominated the view, its shadow sweeping across the grass like the hand of a giant sundial. The faces read 10:15 AM, though he had heard it strike ten multiple times in the parking lot. He felt a brief surge of frustration, rubbing his temples as the mismatch nagged at him.


    The memory of his mother''s departure rippled through his mind, a stone dropped in still water, breaking the moment into recursive echoes. He’d watched her drive away countless times—the silver watch on her wrist catching the sunlight, a strand of hair tucked behind her ear, the minivan''s taillights disappearing down University Drive. The scene replayed like a broken record, each iteration more distorted than the last, leaving him feeling trapped in an endless loop.


    Lance shook his head, forcing himself to focus on unpacking. He had chosen the bed by the window, hoping the morning light would help combat his tendency to sleep through alarms. The mattress squeaked as he sat down, springs protesting with the voice of decades of student use. He began arranging his modest collection of books on the shelf above the desk, aiming for an intentionally sparse look. His battered copy of *The Time Machine* sat next to his high school physics textbook, which he’d kept instead of returning, fascinated by the chapters on relativity.


    The tower bells chimed the quarter-hour, their resonance vibrating through the building''s bones. Lance checked his phone: 10:13 AM. The discrepancy made his temple throb. He’d always been sensitive to time''s inconsistencies, but something about Greylock’s temporal landscape felt particularly unsettling today. His watch briefly froze at 10:14, then jerked forward two minutes, making him jump and glance around nervously.


    Halfway through organizing his clothes into the narrow closet, a knock at the open door made him turn. A tall guy with an easy smile stood in the doorway, one hand raised in greeting. He wore a navy polo shirt that looked effortlessly pressed, khaki shorts, and boat shoes without socks—the uniform of comfortable wealth. His dark blonde hair was perfectly styled in that intentionally casual way that probably cost more than Lance''s entire wardrobe. As he stepped inside, Reid’s heel caught on the rug, sending him stumbling slightly before he regained his composure and chuckled awkwardly.


    "Hey! You must be Lance," the newcomer said, stepping into the room with the confidence of someone who had never doubted their welcome anywhere. "I''m Reid Sawyer." His handshake was firm but not aggressive, exactly what you''d expect from someone accustomed to networking.


    "Yeah, hey," Lance replied, suddenly self-conscious of his wrinkled t-shirt and worn jeans. A small hole near the hem caught his eye, making him wish he''d thought to change after moving boxes. "I, uh, took the window side. Hope that''s okay?"


    "Totally fine," Reid assured him, though his shoes had snagged again, slightly misaligning his step. His family followed—parents who radiated professional success and a younger sister who immediately started documenting everything with her phone. His father wore a blazer despite the August heat, his mother''s sundress likely cost more than Lance''s laptop, and even his sister''s casual outfit screamed "boutique."


    "Reid, honey, let''s get your boxes up here before the elevator gets too crowded," his mother suggested, every syllable polished by an expensive education. Her pearl earrings caught the sunlight as she turned, and Lance thought of his own mother''s silver watch, eternally two minutes behind.


    The next hour became a whirlwind of activity. Lance found himself naturally pulled into helping, part of a well-orchestrated moving operation that spoke of experience with household staff. Reid''s father insisted on assembling both desk chairs himself, his rolled-up sleeves revealing a luxury watch that gleamed with the precision of money Lance could barely fathom. The man hummed a classical piece as he worked, a tune that made the tower bells chime off-key, deepening the room’s uneasy atmosphere.


    "You''re from Meridian City too, right?" Reid asked as they maneuvered a mini-fridge into place—stainless steel, with a separate freezer compartment and built-in USB ports. "Lake View area?"


    "Other side of town," Lance replied, not wanting to specify exactly how far his neighborhood was from Lake View''s manicured lawns and gated communities. "Near Memorial Hospital." He thought of his mother heading to another night shift, her scrubs faded from too many industrial washings.


    "Oh, my aunt had surgery there last year," Reid''s sister chimed in, finally looking up from her phone. "They have that weird old clock in the lobby that never shows the right time. It''s kind of creepy."


    Lance''s head snapped up. "Yeah, it''s always exactly six minutes slow," he said without thinking. "Has been since they installed it in 2017." The memory was clear—he’d watched them mount it on the wall and immediately noticed how it lagged behind even his mother''s watch.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Reid gave him an odd look, pausing in the middle of arranging his impressive collection of tennis trophies. "You spend a lot of time there?"


    "My mom''s a nurse," Lance explained, turning back to organizing cables for his electronics. The cords seemed to twist into knots as soon as he looked away. "I used to do homework in the break room sometimes when she worked doubles." He didn’t mention the vending machine dinners or the nights spent sleeping on waiting room chairs, where time moved differently after midnight. His voice held a tightness, betraying the anxiety he tried to mask.


    Something in his tone must have conveyed "don''t push it," because Reid smoothly changed the subject to their class schedules. Lance relaxed as they discovered they shared an intro to economics course, though Reid''s schedule was packed with business prerequisites while Lance focused on digital media and an intriguing physics seminar on temporal mechanics. The course description had mentioned the observer effect, which had called to him like a siren song.


    After Reid''s family finally departed—with considerably more hugs and photos than Lance''s goodbye—Reid suggested they grab lunch before the dining hall got crowded. The contrast between their farewells weighed on Lance''s stomach: his mother''s quiet dignity versus this family''s production of affection.


    "The tower bells just struck eleven," Reid said, checking his phone. "Should be perfect timing."


    Lance frowned. He hadn’t heard the bells, and his phone showed 10:47 AM. The time displacement made his vision blur at the edges, but his stomach growled, overriding his temporal concerns. He felt a spike of anxiety, his heart racing as the room seemed to tilt slightly.


    The walk to the dining hall gave Lance his first real tour of campus. Reid seemed to already know his way around, probably from multiple college visits and legacy tours. He pointed out shortcuts through the academic buildings, naming each with the ease of someone who''d grown up expecting to attend university. His running commentary included historical facts and student legends, clearly rehearsed during campus tours but delivered with genuine enthusiasm.


    "And that''s Morrison Media Center," Reid gestured to the gleaming glass structure that looked like it had been transported from fifty years in the future. "That''s where most of your classes will be, right?"


    Lance nodded, but his attention was caught by a strange ripple in the building''s reflective surface—like a stone dropped in a mirror-smooth pond, sending concentric circles of distortion across the glass. For a moment, he saw multiple versions of himself reflected, each moving slightly out of sync. He blinked, and it was gone, leaving him dizzy and uncertain. His watch flickered, stopping briefly before resuming, adding to his disorientation.


    The dining hall occupied the ground floor of a limestone building that resembled a medieval feast hall more than a cafeteria. They joined the growing lunch line, Reid chatting easily about his tennis plans and startup ideas while Lance tried to focus on selecting food instead of watching the wall clock tick backward every few seconds. The digital display above the salad bar flickered between numbers seemingly at random. He had always noticed these discrepancies, but they seemed much worse today. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the grilled chicken, his anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.


    "Did we just order?" Lance asked suddenly, staring at the full trays in their hands as they searched for a table. He had no memory of going through the line, though he must have—his plate held exactly what he would have chosen: grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, and an apple that gleamed too perfectly under the fluorescent lights.


    Reid gave him another odd look. "Yeah, like two minutes ago. You feeling okay? Move-in day can be pretty overwhelming."


    "Yeah, just tired," Lance mumbled, following Reid to an empty table near a window. His legs felt heavy, and his mind buzzed with fragmented thoughts.


    They fell into easy conversation as they ate. Reid did most of the talking while Lance tried to ignore the strange feelings brewing inside him. Reid, he discovered, collected vintage tennis rackets and had strong opinions about the evolution of string technology. His enthusiasm made the subject endearing rather than pretentious, his eyes lighting up as he described the perfect sweet spot on a 1960s Wilson.


    "You should come hit some balls around sometime," Reid offered, gesturing with his fork. "The courts here are amazing. All-weather surfaces and lights for night games."


    "I''ve never played," Lance admitted. "Sports weren''t really... we didn''t..." He thought of the tennis courts in Lake View, private clubs where his father probably cleaned the locker rooms. His voice trailed off, embarrassment flickering in his eyes.


    "I''ll teach you," Reid said easily, somehow knowing not to push. "No pressure. Just might be fun." His smile was genuine, without a trace of pity or condescension.


    The afternoon passed in a blur of unpacking and orientation activities. Reid seemed to know everyone already, introducing Lance to a steady stream of people whose names immediately evaporated from his memory. The tower bells rang at irregular intervals, each chime sending shivers down Lance''s spine and making the world shift slightly sideways. At one point, his watch stopped again, the hands frozen at 10:50, and he felt a wave of nausea wash over him.


    By evening, their room had transformed from an empty shell to a lived-in space. Reid''s half featured tennis posters and family photos in matching frames, a cork board filled with social invitations and club meeting times. Lance''s side remained more sparse—a few video game posters and his prized second-hand drawing tablet mounted on the desk, its scratched surface a testament to its previous owner.


    Lance lay in bed that night, listening to Reid''s steady breathing from across the room. The radiator clicked its mechanical heartbeat, marking time in its own peculiar rhythm. Through the window, the clock tower''s illuminated faces glowed like four moons, each showing a slightly different time. The hands moved in ways that defied physics, sometimes spinning backward, sometimes stopping altogether. A tingling crept along his nape, signaling that something was deeply amiss.


    Tomorrow would bring the first day of classes, including the physics seminar that had drawn him to Greylock despite the financial strain. The course description mentioned something about temporal mechanics and observer effect theory. Maybe it would help explain why time felt so slippery lately, why moments seemed to overlap and repeat like a skipping record. Beyond that, he was incredibly excited about the Media Center and all he could learn there.


    The tower bells struck midnight three times in succession, each chime reverberating through him like a warning, rattling his teeth and his sense of reality. Reid slept peacefully through it all, his breathing even and undisturbed, while Lance stared at the ceiling and wondered if anyone else noticed how wrong time felt at Greylock University. The shadows in the room shifted like hour hands, marking time''s passage in ways his phone''s digital display couldn''t capture.


    His phone showed 11:43 PM when he finally drifted off, the tower faces still gleaming outside his window, their hands spinning backward in his dreams, counting down to something he couldn’t quite grasp.