By Peter B. and Art Intelli

The Watch That Ticks Backwards

Antonio Romano had been an unremarkable man. He had lived in Rome his entire life, but certainly never in any of the glamorous or exotic areas. He was a simple porter; never married as he preferred men, but could never admit this even to himself at that time. Now, eighty-eight by the calendar, his back hurt, his knees cracked, and his eyes — clouded with that milky fatigue of living too long — no longer recognized his own reflection.

He found himself usually bored and sometimes confused, which startled him. He had taken to long walks, which often cleared his head and forced him to focus on sights he knew he should remember from his many years in the same city.

He had been walking aimlessly down a narrow street in a part of the city he didn’t recall entering, where the buildings seemed pressed together like secrets, and the sky overhead had dimmed to an eerie tarnish, as though dusk had arrived before its time. Rain drizzled like oil from a rusted pipe above the eaves, as he felt himself drawn down a narrow alleyway.

That’s when suddenly he saw it.

“The Silver Loop: Locksmith & Curios.”

The sign creaked in the wind. The display window was choked with antique shackles, flintlock keys, marine chronometers, and strange timepieces with faces scratched like they’d been buried and dug up again. Everything inside glittered as if caught between centuries.

Again, drawn by something unnamed, now stronger than ever, Antonio grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open into the shop.

The inside smelled of brass polish and wet leather. Rows of locked cabinets lined the walls. A single incandescent bulb buzzed above a glass counter.

Behind it stood a man.

He was tall and bone-thin, dressed in a pinstripe vest with gold spectacles perched on his aquiline nose.

“Looking for anything in particular?” the man asked. His voice was velvet, but bruised at the edges. Old smoke. Distant bells.

“I’m not sure,” Antonio said. “I… just found myself here.”

“That’s how all the best locksmiths begin,” the man said. “They arrive at doors they didn’t expect to open.”

Antonio nodded, unsure why.

As he moved through the shop, one object caught his eye — in a velvet-lined case beneath a row of rusty iron handcuffs. It was a wrist watch — but unlike any he had seen.

It was massive, bold, a diver’s chronograph with a steel band so thick it resembled the cuff of a prison manacle. The dial was black, almost liquid in its sheen, with luminous green indices and a deep red second hand.  It didn’t seem to fit in with the antiques it displayed with.  It was certainly modern.  Almost..?

But it was also ticking backward.

Antonio blinked. “Is that watch broken?”

The proprietor’s smile deepened.

“On the contrary,” he said. “That one is quite special. It doesn’t keep time — it takes it.”

Tony felt a ripple under his skin.

“Try it on.”

He hesitated. “It looks heavy.”

“It is,” said the man. “But you’ll get used to it.”

Tony lifted the watch. Its weight was immense — more like an anchor than an accessory. Still, he slid it around his wrist. The clasp clicked with the sound of a cell door locking.

Only then did he notice: there was no clasp anymore.

The seam was gone. The steel formed a solid band, smooth and unbroken.

“What the hell—” he began.

The man’s eyes glinted. “It’s a one-way device. A loop.”

Tony yanked at the band. It wouldn’t budge.

“You tricked me!”

“I offered,” said the man. “You accepted.”

Antonio staggered back. His heart was pounding.

“Take it off. Now.”

“I can’t. And neither can you. Not until you find the Shackles That Cannot Be Removed.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

The man’s smile grew into a maniacal leer. “You’ll understand in time. Or perhaps… when you’re out of it.”

The odd man reached beneath a table and pulled out a mirror, strangely shaped like a traditional keyhole. “You’ll need this” he said.

Antonio took it in his hands, and gazed into it — like peeking through a keyhole but at yourself and then, he gasped — because in the mirror his face had changed.

His white hair was now dark and only streaked with gray. The deep canyon lines around his mouth were smooth. He stared at his own skin, horrified and amazed. He blinked a few times, and his reflection in the keyhole shaped mirror returned to present day.

“What was that!?”

“The Mirror can show you yourself before, after, and then maybe before again…  And if you learn enough along the way, it can even show you what’s holding you back, and guide you to your release.”

“Make sense!” Antonio barked angrily.

“The watch you wear winds you backward,” the man said. “Tick by tick. Year by year. Soon, you will be seventy again.  Then fifty. Then thirty. Then twenty. Then…”

He trailed off.

Antonio didn’t ask what came next.  He turned and fled the shop still clutching the uncanny mirror, and ran — as quickly as an old man can — all the way back to his room.

It had all seemed like a dream, but the watch on his wrist and the weird reflecting object in his hands proved otherwise. He had only wanted to get away from this sorcerer, but now he realized he had been too rash, there were so many questions. Too many details he needed to know in order to break this curse…

He planned to return to the shop the next day.

When he got there, the shop was gone, if it had ever really been there.

Where it had stood was only an alley full of wet newspapers behind a padlocked gate. He realized he was on his own. He would have to solve these mysteries himself.

But the watch remained on his wrist, ticking back. Always back.

So Antonio began his journey — not forward, but inward.

He knew his mission was to find these Shackles, even though he didn’t really know what he was looking for. He also knew that the backwards chronograph would start to change him, so he decided to create an entirely new version of himself on his own, and beat the clock, as it were.

He became simply: Tony. A hard name. Short. Practical. Like a lock.

He abandoned everything about his old life. He apprenticed himself to myriads of locksmiths, collectors, and self-proclaimed wizards, traveling his native Italy and all of Europe for years. Learning old crafts. Studying obscure keys. Seeking the forbidden designs — latches that opened inward, locks that recognized blood, and cuffs without seams. He had to me sure that when he was presented with the Shackles That Can Not Be Removed, he would be ready for them.

He tattooed his chest and shoulders, gathering Ink from all across the globe. Tat diagrams of locks and escape maps — cryptic spirals, Roman numerals, and the blueprint of a deadbolt hidden behind a lion’s face.

When he moved to the United States he continued his quest, but now found the locks easier, flimsier.

As he grew younger, his body thickened with strength. Muscles returned. Joints loosened. He began lifting weights, obsessively. If Time would make him smaller, he would meet Time with Force.

Sometimes he would fearfully gaze into the mirror to see what might be or what already had occurred. Or both. One time when he saw an enfant googling back at him, and in horror he dropped, and almost broke the glass.

One day he was walking down an alley that strangely reminded him of the alley where this entire adventure had begun. He saw a small and dilapidated storefront wedged between a Barber Shop and Tattoo Parlor. He bought the place right away.

He opened his Locksmith Shop only a few weeks later.

His hair, once snow-white, was now jet black again. But he no longer trusted it. Or cared for it. So he shaved it. Head smooth as marble. Every week, he walked into the next-door barbershop run by a retired Marine named Rook. He sat in the same chair, said the same thing: “Total Baldy.”

“Q-Ball?” Rook always asked.

“Chrome Dome” It was a ritual. A fight against softness. Against forgetting.

Then came the final tattoo — the one that announced his mission to the world.

He walked into the tattoo parlor beside his new shop. The artist didn’t ask questions. Just inked a black keyhole dead-center on Tony’s forehead as requested.

A mark of obsession. Of purpose. Of warning.

When it was done, the InkBoss had to finally ask: “Why there?”

Tony stared straight ahead, and answered almost like a robot. “Black ink, dead-center. Forehead. Can’t miss it. Looks like I lost a bet or joined some secret cult. Maybe I did. Maybe both.

“But here’s the truth — the real truth. It’s a keyhole. Plain and simple. A lock’s pupil. The one place on a door that sees you before you see through it.

“I got it here — right here — because it’s the first thing people will see when they look at me. I want that. Need it. Because this? This is who I am.

“I’ve spent eons surrounded by locks — delicate ones, brutal ones, ancient things carved by hands long dead. I’ve cracked bolts made by blind monks, disarmed traps laced with poisons, picked the secrets off bank vaults and asylum doors.

“And every time… every single time… I’ve outsmarted the lock.

“I can outsmart any lock.

“That’s not pride. That’s not ego. That’s faith. Faith in the discipline. In the obsession. In knowing that every lock, no matter how clever, was made by a human. And I know humans. I know where they hide the pins.

“But see… the tattoo isn’t just about skill. It’s about will. It says: There’s no door I’m afraid to open. Not yours. Not mine. Not the ones that howl when you turn the knob.

“Some people see locks as obstacles. Barriers. I see them as questions. And I never walk away from a question.

“This keyhole? It reminds me to keep looking. To stay curious. To never be afraid of what’s behind the next door — even if it’s teeth, fire, or my own past coming back with a crowbar.

“So yeah. People can laugh. They can stare. But this mark? This is my vow. If it’s locked, I’ll open it. If it’s hidden, I’ll find it. And if there’s a key that doesn’t exist yet — I’ll forge it myself.

“But I need for whoever wears Them, when they look at me they will know that I am the One who can remove their Shackles That Can Not Be Removed.”

The InkBoss’ eyes had glazed over halfway through Tony’s homily, but he suddenly looked confused, and didn’t engage in any more conversation. Tony left without saying anything more.

The steel watch fused to his left wrist has become less a curse and more a companion.

Sometimes it tickles in his sleep, like it’s whispering.

“You’re running out of time, Antonio. Tick. Tick. Tick.”

And sometimes, when he looks in that magic mirror, he sees a stranger’s face smiling back.

Younger. Stronger.

But also afraid.

Because the last tick, the last second, will come.

And he still hasn’t found the Shackles That Cannot Be Removed.

Not yet.