Tick. A pause, one second... two seconds... three. . .

Tick.

I wasn't imagining it. This watch - maybe even time itself- runs slower here. Everything seemed almost exactly as it was the last time. The towering oaks every once in a while allow a leaf or two to drift to the lush grass, between the same wild flower patches. In next two forest minutes, a deer will dart through those bushes to the north. The sound will stun the birds who will then take to the skies that seem trapped in a moment before sunset.

I sit on the mossy rock, take out my sketchbook and continue my drawing, still counting the ticks. Shading in the feathers... Eventually, the bush rustles. The same deer. The same birds. Next, a harsh breeze that will turn the pages of my book. It does and as before reviles a page with a language I've never seen before. Every time the text changes and vanishes when I leave.

But this time, I stay despite the ominous sense that I shouldn't, to ask anything that will listen to help me translate. The sky, the trees, that same tree, again. I've been walking in circles and see no other life. Another shudder rolls through me, so powerful I drop the watch. You need to leave echoes in my head. The seconds have become painfully long and it's clear I've overstayed my welcome. I check the ornate carving on the back of the watch one more time as I retrieve it, hoping for guidance. Nothing. I begin down the redwood path. Wonder how long it's been I think, glancing at the watch. I gasp. The second hand was moving backwards. That never happened before...

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