Lance slumped into the worn armchair of the campus coffee shop, his tablet propped next to a half-empty cup of cooling vanilla latte. The morning rush had subsided, leaving a gentler hum of conversation and the steady hiss of espresso machines. After countless cafeteria loops, he craved normalcy—a quiet space to process with his art. Yesterday he had retreated to his room and slept as much as possible, but today he needed to refocus himself. As he shifted to settle more comfortably, the leather cushion squeaked softly.


    His stylus trembled above the display; creativity remained stubbornly elusive. Around him, other students hunched over laptops or whispered in hushed tones. Every few minutes, laughter broke his concentration, or a chair scraped against the hardwood floor, jangling his nerves. The grinding beans and clashing porcelain created a rhythmic backdrop. Not even the beats of his playlist, coming through headphones, could drown out the din.


    Slanting light fell through the tall windows, stretching across his workspace and glaring on the tablet''s screen. He adjusted his position again, accidentally bumping the table and causing his latte to slosh dangerously close to the rim. The vanilla scent wafted up, reminding him he’d barely touched the drink since ordering it an hour ago.


    Near the counter, an older barista caught his attention. The man moved like he’d worked here forever, his grey-streaked hair falling across his forehead as he steamed milk for a latte. His nametag read simply "Jack."


    Jack chatted with a student, his voice clear despite the ambient noise. His worn apron bore coffee stains arranged like abstract art.


    "...when I was a student here, there was this perfect quiet spot in the clock tower base," Jack said, gesturing with a cleaning cloth. "Nobody ever went there. Great for projects. The light in there..." He trailed off, wiping the counter with practiced strokes.


    Lance''s stylus clattered against the table. He yanked off his headphones, straining to hear more, but the conversation had shifted to drink orders and meal options.


    The clock tower. Lance had avoided looking at it closely since arriving at Greylock, given its tendency to display conflicting times. But curiosity overcame his hesitation. Tucking his tablet, stylus, charging cable, and sketchbook into his bag, he ventured out into the sharp autumn breeze.


    Autumn leaves crackled underfoot as he traversed the quad, their fiery hues blazing against the weathered stone facades. The tower loomed against the cloudless sky, its Gothic architecture more intricate up close. Gargoyles perched along the edges, their stone faces smoothed by a century of rain. Each creature seemed to watch his approach with ancient eyes.


    Lance circled the base until he found a heavy wooden door. The brass handle turned easily under his palm, as if expecting him. The metal felt unusually warm despite the cool air.


    Inside, a narrow spiral staircase wound upward, stone steps worn into shallow bowls by generations of feet. Dust danced in light filtering through arrow-slit windows. Instead of climbing, Lance noticed another door at ground level, tucked into an alcove.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    The door opened silently into a circular room that took his breath away. Light came through a high window, spotlighting an old wooden desk beneath it.


    The walls curved gracefully, and the air held a comfortable stillness, broken only by the distant ticking of clock mechanisms above. The sound was oddly soothing, like a heartbeat marking time in its unique rhythm. The temperature remained perfectly comfortable despite the autumn chill outside, as if the room maintained its own climate.


    Lance approached the desk reverently. Its surface bore marks from many students, ink stains, pencil marks, and tiny scratches. Some marks formed patterns like a secret language carved into the wood over years of use. He ran his fingers along the grain, feeling an immediate connection to this space.


    Setting up his tablet, Lance settled into the worn chair, which cradled him perfectly. The sunbeam warmed his shoulders as he opened his art program, the screen''s glow blending with natural light. For the first time since the cafeteria loops began, his mind felt clear and focused, ready to create.


    His stylus moved with purpose, translating his recent chaos into digital form. He began with abstract shapes—twisted corridors of time in deep blues and purples, overlaid with fragments of repeated moments in amber hues. Each layer built upon the last, creating depth and movement that almost seethed with life.


    The piece evolved organically, flowing from his subconscious understanding of temporal distortion. He incorporated techniques from Maya''s work, blending them with his own style to create something new. The room''s silence wrapped around him, encouraging deeper focus and experimentation.


    His hands moved with certainty, mind focused like it hadn’t since arriving at Greylock. Each brushstroke felt guided, as if the room fostered his creativity. The light remained constant despite the sun''s movement outside, maintaining perfect conditions for artistic work.


    Immersed in the process, Lance''s mind wandered through memories of the loops, processing them through color and form. Frustration from repeated failures and the triumph of breaking free poured onto his screen. He infused elements from the cafeteria scene: harsh fluorescent lights transformed into stark white lines cutting through darker shapes, his isolation becoming negative space that gradually filled with warmth and connection.


    When he finally sat back, neck stiff from concentration, the piece before him took his breath away. It was unlike anything he''d created before—more mature, nuanced, showcasing technical skills he hadn''t possessed a week ago. The artwork captured something essential about his journey through Greylock''s temporal anomalies while remaining abstract enough to speak to universal experiences of time and change.


    Stretching, Lance checked his phone, expecting hours to have passed. It showed 11:47 AM—barely an hour since he''d entered the tower room. He frowned, looking at his artwork again. The detail and refinement suggested many hours of work. His tablet''s battery had drained significantly, indicating extended use. The disconnect between experienced time and clock time felt familiar yet different from his loops—more productive, more intentional.


    He gathered his supplies, taking one last look at his creation. The piece shimmered slightly on the screen, almost alive with its own energy.


    As he reached for the door handle, Lance glanced back at the shaft of sunlight. It still illuminated the desk perfectly, despite the sun''s movement in the sky.


    Outside, the autumn afternoon continued normally. Students crossed the quad, heading to late classes or early dinners. The clock tower''s faces aligned properly, showing the same time as his phone. Lance felt refreshed, centered in a way he hadn''t experienced since arriving at Greylock.


    He had found something interesting perhaps—not just a quiet place to work, but a space where time moved differently. The tower room had offered him sanctuary and understanding when he needed it most.


    His phone buzzed with a text from Reid about lunch plans, pulling him back to normal routines.


    As he walked away, the tower''s shadow stretched across the quad, a gentle reminder that some places operated by their own rules.