Dylan trudged down the stairs of his childhood home. The monotony that came to rule his days was
devouring any enthusiasm he once had. He wasn’t even thirty but felt like an old man with the
many failures heaping on his shoulders, wearing him down.
He was a bachelor living with his parents, forced to move back in after he lost his business and went
into debt. He hardly had any money left and had no other choice. He needed them, and he wasn’t
happy about it.
Mid-morning, he was staring out his window thinking about his misfortunes when something
caught his attention. He dragged himself out of his room and down the stairs, past the living room
where his mother sat in her armchair, watching TV. He would have avoided her if he could, but
there was no other way outside.
“Where are you going, Dylan?” she asked before he could touch the door handle.
He held in a sigh. “I’m going across the street. It looks like the Johnsons are having a garage sale,”
he replied.
His mother nodded and forced a smile. “Alright. But don’t be too long. Lunch will be ready soon.”
She knew he was going through a difficult time, so she kept her true thoughts to herself—that he
should be looking for a job. It had only been two weeks since he moved back home, and he’d barely
left his room.
Dylan headed towards the Johnson’s house while his mother turned back around to watch the
news—the same news that had been blaring up the stairs all day. The famous Italian American
reporter and investigator Luca di Verttoni droned on and on about the strange mystery that washed
ashore on an East coast beach just a few days ago. The Case of Henry Evans and Delia Clerk
shocked and captivated the country as a lifeguard found the headless bodies of the young man and
woman on the morning of July 5th.
Investigators were able to identify the headless bodies from the cell phones in the victims pockets,
along with documents that identified the two as a young couple who had went to the beach on the
night of Friday, July 4th to watch the fireworks and spend some time together at the 4th of July
festival. They were simply a young couple looking forward to enjoying the festivities, and the next
morning, their headless bodies were found by a lifeguard. It was gruesome and tragic, and their
heads had not yet been found.
The reporter’s deep voice followed Dylan out the door. “For now, the authorities are still at a loss.
The cuts on Henry and Delia’s heads are perfect. No fingerprints, not a single hair or any DNA trace
that could lead to the perpetrators of such an atrocious act. This is, undoubtedly, a case that will go
down in the history of criminology in the United States.”
The broadcast faded as Dylan crossed the street to Mr. Johnson’s house. Mismatched tables held a
museum of old and dusty objects. Dylan picked through them, looking for something that both
caught his interest and that he could afford with the little money in his pocket.
Among the worn-out books and broken furniture, a unique clock caught his attention. It was a
stunning piece. He picked it up carefully, admiring its antique design and apparent good
condition—better than anything else in the garage sale.
It was a strange clock, unlike anything he had seen before. It was a perfect rectangle with precise dimensions—about a foot tall, half a foot across, and four inches deep. The solid structure had a series of buttons strategically placed on its
surface. At the top, the face of a clock added a touch of intrigue.
The clock was slightly smaller than the depth—Dylan guessed a little less than three inches in diameter. The curious thing about the
clock face is that it appeared to float above the buttons. It was enigmatic and unique.
Dylan looked up at Mr. Johnson. “How much for the clock?” he asked.
The old man sat in a folding chair near the sidewalk and shrugged. “For you? I’ll let it go for ten
dollars. Why would I need that clock? It’s a piece of junk that belonged to my grandfather. It hasn’t
been used in years—I pushed the buttons on it for the first time a few days ago.”
Dylan nodded and fished the money out of his pocket and handed it over.
A strange sensation came over him as he crossed the street back home, holding the clock in his
hands. It was just a clock, but he felt like he found something more at the garage sale that day.