The clock had always been too loud.
Nora noticed it most on sleepless nights—the steady tick, tick, tick cutting through the dark like a metronome for her thoughts. She had suggested replacing it years ago. Aaron had said he liked it. Said it made the room feel anchored, dependable.
That was before the numbers changed.
She woke just after 2:00 a.m., heart racing for no reason she could name. The room was dark except for the faint red glow of the digital clock on Aaron’s side of the bed. She rolled onto her elbow, squinting.
The numbers read: 09:59:58.
She frowned.
“What time is it?” she whispered.
Aaron stirred beside her. “Too early.”
“That’s not the time,” she said.
He cracked one eye open and followed her gaze. The glow reflected faintly in his pupils.
The clock ticked down.
09:59:57
09:59:56
Aaron sat up.
“That’s… not right.”
Nora’s chest tightened. “Is that a timer?”
The seconds continued to fall, unbothered by their confusion.
Aaron swung his legs out of bed and unplugged the clock. The numbers stayed lit.
He cursed softly and carried it to the bathroom. Set it on the counter. Turned the lights on.
The countdown didn’t pause.
Nora wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and followed, bare feet cold against tile.
“What happens at zero?” she asked.
Aaron didn’t answer.
He pressed every button. Nothing changed.
09:58:41
“Maybe it’s broken,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
The air felt heavy, like the house was holding its breath.
Nora swallowed. “Why does it feel like it’s… aimed at us?”
The clock ticked.
They didn’t sleep after that.
By morning, the timer read 08:12:09.
They carried the clock from room to room, as if movement might disrupt it. Kitchen counter. Dining table. Garage workbench. Still counting down.
Aaron searched online. Power outages. Digital malfunctions. Nothing fit.
Nora sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug gone cold, watching the numbers bleed away.
“What if it’s not time?” she said quietly.
Aaron looked up. “What do you mean?”
“What if it’s… chances?”
The clock beeped once—soft, almost polite—and continued.
Aaron’s jaw tightened. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Silence stretched.
The clock ticked louder now. Or maybe they were just listening harder.
The first truth slipped out accidentally.
“I hate that you never talk about your father,” Nora said, sharper than she intended.
Aaron flinched.
“That’s not—”
The clock skipped a second.
Not down.
Forward.
Then resumed.
They froze.
Nora’s pulse thundered. “Did you see that?”
Aaron nodded slowly.
“What were you about to say?” she asked.
He swallowed. “That it doesn’t matter.”
The clock skipped again.
Another second lost.
Nora’s voice trembled. “Aaron… what if it does matter?”
The numbers glowed steadily.
Aaron exhaled shakily. “I didn’t talk about him because I was afraid I’d become him.”
The clock slowed.
Just slightly.
Nora felt tears sting her eyes. “You never told me that.”
“I didn’t want you to see me that way.”
The timer continued—unchanged.
They stared at it.
“Say something else,” Nora whispered.
Aaron hesitated. “I resented you when you asked me to move cities. I felt like my life got smaller.”
The clock skipped two seconds.
Nora pressed her hand to her mouth. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask.”
The clock sped up—seconds falling faster now.
Panic surged.
“Okay,” Nora said quickly. “Okay. We need to figure this out.”
Aaron’s voice was tight. “Figure out what? It’s clearly reacting to us.”
“To honesty,” she said.
The clock skipped again.
By afternoon, the countdown read 05:03:19.
They hadn’t gone to work. Hadn’t answered their phones. They sat on opposite sides of the living room, the clock between them like a witness.
Every half-truth shaved time away.
Every deflection accelerated it.
When they spoke honestly—even painfully—the timer slowed. Sometimes stalled.
“I feel like I carry us,” Nora admitted. “Emotionally. I’m tired.”
The clock steadied.
Aaron nodded, eyes wet. “I stopped sharing my fears because you always seemed so capable.”
A second slowed. Stretched.
“I thought if one of us stayed strong, we’d survive,” she said.
“I thought if I stayed quiet, you wouldn’t leave,” he replied.
The clock ticked.
Still moving.
Still unforgiving.
“What happens at zero?” Aaron asked.
Nora’s voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t think it’s about the clock.”
The timer dropped to 03:41:12.
Fear crept in fully now.
“I thought about leaving,” Aaron said suddenly. “Last year. I didn’t do it. But I thought about it.”
The clock plummeted—ten seconds gone in an instant.
Nora gasped. Her chest burned.
“Say everything,” she said, tears spilling. “All of it. Before it runs out.”
Aaron grabbed her hands. “I’m still here. I chose you. I choose you.”
The clock slowed—but didn’t stop.
Nora’s breath shook. “I stayed because I was scared to start over. Not because I was sure.”
The numbers dropped.
“I love you,” Aaron said desperately. “But I don’t know how to fix us alone.”
The timer hit 01:12:08.
The house creaked softly.
Nora squeezed his hands. “I didn’t marry you to be perfect. I married you to be real.”
The clock slowed to a crawl.
Aaron looked at her like she was oxygen. “I need help. Therapy. Time. I can’t keep pretending I’m fine.”
The timer paused.
Fully.
They stared.
The numbers flickered, then vanished.
The clock went dark.
They sat in silence for a long time.
No ticking.
No glow.
Just breath and heartbeat and the echo of everything they’d finally said.
Aaron laughed weakly. “So… that happened.”
Nora wiped her face. “I think it was warning us.”
“Or giving us a chance.”
She nodded.
They didn’t throw the clock away.
They placed it in a drawer—unplugged, dark, ordinary again.
But some nights, when the house is quiet, Nora swears she can still hear it.
Not counting down.
Listening.
Waiting.
Because some marriages don’t end when love runs out.
They end when time does—and no one was brave enough to use it.