The Watch That Never Stops

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Welcome to the newsletter!

You all send me great ideas throughout the week, so I am trying something new. This is a fictional, short story featuring a watch!📖 

Here’s the watch, and I hope you enjoy!

Paul first saw it in his father’s trembling hands: a Seiko 7025-8099, affectionately nicknamed the "Poor Man." The brushed steel case gleamed under the soft light, the blue dial whispering elegance.

“It’s yours now,” his father croaked, the hospital bed’s machinery beeping a slow dirge. “Take care of it… and it’ll take care of you.”

Paul chuckled nervously. His father’s fondness for hyperbole was legendary, even in his final moments.

Weeks later, Paul found himself obsessing over the watch. He hadn’t worn it yet—he wasn’t much of a watch guy—but its constant ticking filled his apartment. It was absurdly loud, like it was competing for attention.

One night, fueled by bourbon and insomnia, Paul decided to test its limits. He wound it too tightly, expecting to hear the delicate snap of a ruined movement. Instead, the second hand kept ticking, a smooth and relentless motion.

“That’s… impossible,” he muttered.

Over the following days, the watch’s peculiarities became undeniable. He dropped it—accidentally, then intentionally. He submerged it in water. He left it in the freezer overnight. Nothing stopped it. The ticking continued, unbothered by abuse.

When he tried to sell it, things got stranger.

“Sorry, man,” the pawn shop owner said, handing it back. “It’s in your pocket.”

Paul froze. The Seiko was no longer in the glass counter but nestled snugly in his jeans.

The dreams started soon after. Paul found himself standing in a gray void, a massive clock face suspended in the air. Its hands were identical to the Seiko’s, ticking down to… something. The dream always ended the same: Paul reaching for the watch’s crown, only for the clock to explode into light.

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One morning, Paul noticed the date wheel. It had shifted slightly—just enough to make him squint.

“What the hell?”

The next day, it read 13.

He tried everything to get rid of it. He smashed it with a hammer, burned it, buried it in the woods. No matter what, the Seiko always found its way back, ticking on its new number.

On the sixth day, Paul visited a horologist, a wizened man with thick glasses.

“This watch…” the old man said, holding it like a sacred artifact. “It doesn’t belong to you.”

“No kidding.” Paul sighed. “What does it want?”

The old man paled. “I don’t know. But it’s older than it looks.”

Paul snatched it back and left, the ticking louder than ever.

By the final day, Paul was unraveling. The watch read 1. He stared at it, waiting for the end. Was it a bomb? A curse?

At 11:59 PM, he held the Seiko tightly. The ticking grew deafening.

Then, it stopped.

The silence was worse.

The room dimmed, and a figure emerged—a silhouette of a man wearing Paul’s face.

“It’s time,” the figure said.

“For what?” Paul whispered.

“For you to take my place.”

The figure stepped closer, handed Paul a watch identical to his Seiko, and vanished.

The ticking resumed.

Paul stood in the gray void, staring at the massive clock. Its hands were still.

He reached for the crown.

It began to tick.

The next morning, a young woman received a package: a Seiko 7025-8099. Inside was a note:

“Take care of it… and it’ll take care of you.”

That’s it!

Like this watch? It can be yours! Head over to the Laughter Collection and buy it before it’s gone!

See you next time,

Ian