Over the next few days, Lance found himself becoming more accustomed to Greylock University’s bizarre temporal quirks. Most days passed without incident. He attended classes, used the tower room to study or create art, and occasionally joined Reid, Maya, and Jasper for impromptu lunches or library sessions. A handful of oddities still surfaced—like when his laptop’s clock randomly skipped a few minutes or the dorm’s hallway lights blinked in perfect sync with his phone’s ringtone—but compared to the endless cafeteria loops, these glitches felt almost mundane.
Almost every evening, Lance spent at least an hour in the room beneath the clock tower. The space radiated a serene energy that seemed to lengthen his available time. A two-hour study session stretched in that sunlit circle room. It felt like a leisurely afternoon. He aced his first digital art assignment—Dr. Mendez praised the depth and confidence in his lines, leaving Lance half-convinced the tower’s stillness was as important as any of his technical skill.
Between classes, he noticed Maya seemed more comfortable around people lately—no longer the solitary figure in the cafeteria. Jasper bounced between them with unstoppable enthusiasm, rattling off stories of his parents’ fusion food truck or some new campus event. Even Reid, whose world revolved around tennis practice and weekend tournaments, joined the group for quick coffee breaks or evening dinners in the dining hall.
On Saturday morning, Lance was hunched over his desk, half-heartedly sketching a new concept for Dr. Mendez’s latest project, when his phone vibrated. The caller ID flashed Mom. Relief tugged at him; he hadn’t spoken to her in days. Memories of her worrying over bills tightened his stomach.
“Hi, honey! How’s my college boy doing?” Sarah Weaver’s voice bubbled through the speaker, infused with her usual warmth.
“Hey, Mom,” Lance said, setting down his pencil. “I’m okay. Just working on an art piece. How’s work?”
“Oh, it’s fine. Busy, of course, with Linda retiring. I’m practically living at the hospital, but it’s all right.” She laughed a little too brightly, and Lance imagined her brushing aside exhaustion with that same determined smile she’d worn all through his childhood. “The overtime will help with bills. Don’t you worry about a thing, just keep those grades up.”
His stomach clenched as he recalled glimpsing a hefty credit card bill back home before he left for Greylock—his mom had scribbled payment plans in the margins, adding and subtracting amounts with anxious circles around the totals. “Mom, I—if things are tight, I can—”
“Stop,” she cut in gently, though her voice wavered for just a second. “I’m fine. Truly. Anyway, you said you were taking a physics class you were excited about? How is that going?”
As she spoke, the call crackled. For a split second, Lance heard her words echo, warped as though traveling from a distant radio station. “Mom? You’re breaking up.” He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, but the static only worsened.
“…proud of you… love you… be careful…”
And then the line went dead.
Each attempt to redial sent him to voicemail. Lance stared at the phone’s dark screen, frustration and guilt building. He hated feeling powerless—unable to help his mom financially, unable to maintain even a stable phone connection.
A text from Reid interrupted his spiral:
**Lunch? Found this great place off campus. My treat!**
They met in front of Blackwood Hall, where the leaves glowed gold under a bright autumn sun. Reid wore a tennis-team hoodie, hair still damp from morning practice. The energy he exuded provided an anchor for Lance’s racing thoughts.
“You’ll love this bistro,” Reid questioned, setting a brisk pace down Winchester Road. “My sister insisted I try it. Now I’m addicted to their grilled chicken sandwich.”
They arrived at a charming little spot nestled between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop. The stained-glass windows cast pools of color onto the tables, and warm wood beams made the interior feel homey. A wiry, bearded waiter took their orders with brisk efficiency—Reid’s going for a Caesar salad, the legendary chicken sandwich for Lance.
When their dishes arrived, Lance’s hopes for normalcy evaporated. The sandwich looked disturbingly aged—mold spotted the bread, brown sludge where lettuce should be, and grey, shriveled chicken. It was as though it had been experiencing months of decay. The stench made him gag.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
“What the hell?” Reid sprang to his feet so quickly that silverware clattered. “Hey!” he called to the waiter. “Look at this! You just served this, and it’s… it’s ancient!”
The bearded waiter hurried over, equally horrified. “I just carried it from the kitchen, sir. I watched them prepare it—I swear it was fine.”
A flurry of apologies followed. The bewildered manager appeared, dragging out the equally flabbergasted cook, who insisted his ingredients were fresh that very morning. Lance tried not to draw attention as he watched the bistro’s wall clock tick backward for a few seconds, then jump forward in a frantic catch-up.
Eventually, a perfectly normal replacement sandwich arrived—no mold, no odor, just standard grilled chicken and lettuce. Reid eyed the staff suspiciously as if expecting them to conjure more rot.
As they left, Reid kept shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, dude. I can’t believe that happened. I recommended this place, and they tried to serve you a fossil.”
Lance mustered a chuckle. “At least it’s a memorable lunch?”
Reid checked his phone. “It’s 2:15,” he murmured. “Took extra time for them to remake it.”
Lance nodded, glancing up at the distant tower—its four faces each displayed a slightly different hour. The shadows on the street were much longer than they should’ve been for mid-afternoon, creeping across the sidewalk like living things.
Back on campus, a fluttering poster taped to a bulletin board caught Lance’s eye. Big, bold lettering read:
ANNUAL GAMING TOURNAMENT – $2000 GRAND PRIZE – THIS SATURDAY!
Below it, smaller text listed the featured game: Valor Strike—a tactical shooter that Lance and his hometown friend Chris had sunk countless hours into.
A spark of hope ignited within Lance. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money, especially for a college student. It could chip away at his mom’s bills. He snapped a photo of the flyer, mind already racing.
Reid noticed his interest and questioned, “You thinking of entering?”
“Yeah,” Lance replied, exhaling slowly. “I’ve played that game for years. Chris and I used to duo-queue in high school. Maybe… maybe I can win.”
Reid patted him on the back. “Go for it, man. You’ve got a week to prepare, right? Let me know if I can help.”
When Lance got back to his dorm room, he found a text from Emma Nash waiting. She was a longtime friend from Meridian City—another artist who’d sometimes clashed with him over color palettes but always brought out the best in his work.
“Hey, stranger! Missing our art room debates. How’s fancy college treating you? We should totally meet up next time you’re in town!”
A grin tugged at Lance’s lips. Emma’s easy confidence, her perpetual drive to create, had always grounded him. He typed back quickly:
“Miss you too! Greylock’s… interesting. Hard to explain. Let’s definitely hang out soon.”
Her reply was almost immediate:
“Interesting, huh? Sounds like you’re having a rough time?”
He stared at her words, his shoulders tensed at how perceptive she remained. Rough time. She had no idea how literal that was. But the idea comforted him in a way—maybe these experiences would fuel his creativity. Maybe he could make sense of them, turning chaos into art.
Late that evening, Lance booted up his gaming laptop, found Chris online, and jumped into Discord. Their chosen battlefield: Valor Strike.
“Yo,” Chris’s voice crackled through Lance’s headset, instantly familiar. “Long time, no pwnage. Ready to lose?”
“Ha!” Lance smirked. “We’ll see who carries who.”
They spent hours running drills—aim routines, strategy discussions, recalling old map callouts. Chris teased him mercilessly whenever Lance’s aim faltered, but he also offered serious coaching. As they played, Lance felt flickers in the screen’s refresh rate, as though time itself stuttered during critical moments. Sometimes it stretched, letting him line up impossible shots; other times, it compressed, forcing him to react in a blur.
“You’re playing out of your mind, man,” Chris said at one point. “Didn’t think your reflexes were this good. What’s your secret?”
“Just… focusing,” Lance replied, not quite ready to mention the reality-warping phenomena that threaded through his days. “It’s important.”
Chris fell silent, then added softly, “This is about your mom, right? You want that prize money.”
Lance swallowed. Chris knew him too well. “Yeah. She’s swamped with bills, and my remaining tuition doesn’t help. I need to do something.”
Chris inhaled. “We’ll practice every night. We can scrimmage with some buds from my campus. You got this, okay?”
Lance felt gratitude welling up, a warm current behind his ribcage. “Thanks, Chris. I owe you one.”
Outside his window, the moon rose higher, bathing the quad in silver. The tower’s silhouette dominated the skyline—a silent reminder that time around here had a will of its own. Lance decided to take advantage of it, harnessing these strange distortions if he could. The immediate goal was simple: win that tournament. A couple thousand dollars wouldn’t solve everything, but it might give his mother some breathing room.
By the time they logged off, Lance’s muscles ached from tension, but exhilaration coursed through him. Closing his laptop, he glimpsed the reflection of the tower in the window—lights glowing from each clock face at subtly different intensities.
Emma’s name lit up his phone once more:
“Still awake, I assume? Don’t burn yourself out, okay? Your art was always best when you were in a good headspace. Don’t forget to breathe.”
He smiled. Typical Emma—bossy in that caring way. He typed back:
“Thanks. I won’t. Let’s do a video call soon. Miss your critiques.”
He waited a moment, but she didn’t reply right away. Setting the phone aside, he collapsed onto his bed. Reid’s side of the room was dark; quiet snores rose and fell in a comforting rhythm. Lance let himself sink into the mattress, exhaustion tugging at his thoughts.
His mind meandered through images of moldy sandwiches, speeding clocks, and the gentle hush of the tower room. He pictured his mom, the lines of worry around her eyes, and the silver watch on her wrist. Only a week until the tournament, he reminded himself.