The town of Elmsworth had always been quiet, a place where time seemed to move at its own pace. Nestled between rolling hills and dense woods, it was the kind of place that attracted artists, retirees, and those seeking solitude. But beneath its serene surface, something strange lingered. It started with the clocks. Not all of them, but enough to make people uneasy. The old grandfather clock in the library would tick forward by an hour every week, while the digital one in the café would sometimes freeze mid-second, only to restart from 12:00 again. At first, no one thought much of it—just quirks of aging machinery. But then came the more unsettling occurrences. Eleanor, a local librarian, noticed that books were appearing in different places than she left them. A novel on ancient myths would be found in the children’s section, or a history book on the Civil War would suddenly be shelved next to a collection of poetry. She tried to keep track, but the patterns were erratic. One day, she saw her reflection in the window, but the person standing behind her wasn’t herself. It was a younger version, wearing clothes she hadn’t worn in decades. When she turned around, there was no one there. Then there were the voices. They came from nowhere, whispering in languages she didn’t recognize, yet they felt familiar. Some nights, she’d wake up to find her hands covered in ink, as if she had written something in her sleep. When she looked at the notes, the words made no sense, but they felt like memories. The town’s oldest resident, Mr. Harlow, claimed he had seen it all before. He spoke of “the rift,” a place where time folded in on itself. He said it was hidden in the woods, near the old mill that had long since been abandoned. No one believed him, but over time, more people began to experience similar things. A baker named Clara found her pastries being baked twice. Once, she made a batch of lemon tarts, only to find another set still warm on the counter the next morning. She couldn’t remember making them. A schoolteacher, Thomas, noticed that his students would sometimes act out scenes from his childhood, even though they had never met him. He would hear their laughter echoing from the empty halls when he was alone. The most disturbing event happened on the eve of the autumn equinox. A group of teenagers ventured into the woods, drawn by rumors of the rift. They returned hours later, disoriented and confused. They claimed they had seen a mirror-like pool in the middle of the clearing, reflecting not their faces, but scenes from different times. One boy said he saw himself playing in the same field, but older, with a family he didn’t remember. Another swore she saw a version of her mother who had died years ago, smiling back at her. After that, the anomalies became more frequent. People would see themselves walking down the street, but not quite in sync. A man would step into a shop, only to emerge minutes later, but with the same clothes and the same expression, as if time had looped around him. The town’s church bell rang at odd hours, and the townspeople began to avoid the center of town after dark. No one knew how to stop it. Some blamed the old mill, others the forest, and a few whispered that it was something older, something that had always been there, waiting. The town council held meetings, but no solution emerged. The anomalies continued, growing more complex, more confusing. One night, Eleanor went to the mill alone. The air was thick with mist, and the trees seemed to lean in as if listening. She found the pool, just as the teenagers had described. Its surface was still, reflecting nothing but the sky above. She reached out, and for a moment, she saw herself—older, wiser, standing beside a child who looked exactly like her. Then the image faded, and the water rippled, revealing a face she didn’t recognize. She stepped back, heart pounding. The world around her felt heavier, as if time itself was holding its breath. As she turned to leave, she heard a voice behind her, speaking in her own tone, but with a strange, knowing lilt. "You’re not ready yet." She ran, but the path behind her had changed. The trees twisted, the ground shifted, and when she finally reached the edge of the woods, she found herself back in the town square—but the sun was setting in the east, and the clock tower showed a time that didn’t exist. No one else seemed to notice. The town carried on, unaware of what had happened. But Eleanor knew. She could feel it now, like a thread pulling at the edges of reality. And deep in the woods, the pool waited, silent and watching.