The town of Elmsworth had always been quiet, nestled in a valley where the fog lingered longer than it should. Most people didn’t think much of it—just a place where time moved slower, as if the world itself was holding its breath. But for those who lived there, the signs were there, subtle but persistent. It started with the clocks. Not all of them, just some. The old grandfather clock in the library would tick forward by an hour each morning, only to be reset by the librarian, Mrs. Hale, who never spoke about it. The school bell would ring twice on certain days, once for the morning class and once for the afternoon, even though the students had already left. No one could explain it, and no one wanted to ask too many questions. Then came the whispers. They weren’t loud, just faint, like voices carried on the wind. People would hear them when they were alone, standing in their yards or walking through the woods. Some claimed they were talking about things that hadn’t happened yet. Others swore they heard themselves speaking in the past. No one could ever tell what they said, but the feeling they left behind was unsettling. One evening, a man named Elias Vane found himself wandering the outskirts of the town, drawn by a strange pull he couldn’t name. He had always been a skeptic, a man who believed in logic and reason, but something about the air felt different that night. The stars seemed to flicker, not with the usual light, but with a slow, pulsing glow, like they were breathing. When he reached the old bridge over the river, he noticed something strange: the water below was moving backward, as if the current was flowing upstream. He knelt down, peering into the dark water, and saw his own reflection—but it wasn’t him. It was a younger version, wearing clothes he hadn’t owned in decades. The reflection smiled at him, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees. Elias stood up, heart pounding, and ran back toward town, but when he arrived, the streets were empty. No one was around, and the lights in the houses were off, as if the entire town had gone to sleep at the same time. The next day, the townspeople were confused. They had all slept through the night, but none remembered dreaming. The bridge was still there, the river still flowed normally, and the clocks ticked on as if nothing had changed. But Elias knew better. He kept his silence, afraid that if he spoke, the others might forget what had happened. Over the following weeks, more strange occurrences took place. A child saw her mother’s shadow walking ahead of her, but when she turned, the woman was nowhere to be found. A farmer found his crops growing and withering in the same day, as if time had looped around itself. A couple met in the square, both claiming they had known each other for years, but neither could remember how they had met. Elias began to research the history of Elmsworth, digging through old records and journals. He found mentions of “the Veil,” a term used by the town’s founders to describe the boundary between time and space. They had built the town in a place where the earth itself was thin, where the past and future bled into one another. Some believed the town was a place of healing, where lost time could be reclaimed. Others thought it was cursed, a trap for those who dared to linger too long. One night, Elias returned to the bridge, determined to understand. The air was thick with mist, and the wind carried a low hum, like a forgotten lullaby. As he stepped onto the wooden planks, the world shifted. The river glowed with an eerie blue light, and the trees swayed without any breeze. He saw figures moving in the distance—people from different times, dressed in styles from centuries apart. They moved as if caught in a dream, unaware of his presence. A voice called out to him, soft and familiar. It was his own voice, but older, worn with time. “You’re not supposed to be here,” it said. “Time is not meant to be touched.” Elias tried to run, but the ground beneath him dissolved, and he fell into darkness. When he opened his eyes, he was back at the bridge, the same as before, but the sky had changed. The sun was setting in the east, and the stars blinked in and out of existence like a dying fire. He never spoke of what he saw, but the changes remained. The clocks still ticked strangely, the whispers still drifted through the air, and the river still held secrets beneath its surface. And sometimes, when the wind was right, you could hear the echo of a man calling out, asking why he had come. But no one ever answered.