7:25

7:25 a.m.

The kitchen clock stopped, and time began to take on a new dimension—an unspoken truth, like a breath held for too long. Time did not stop, it did not shatter, but it began to withdraw, step by step, second by second, like something that knew it was no longer wanted.

“It’s early,” Ana said, without looking at the clock even for a second. Her voice sounded dimmed, and her words no longer seemed to need meaning—only continuity, the simple act of being spoken.

“It’s not,” Mihai said. “We’re actually late.”

The coffee cup in Ana’s hand hit the table with a sharp sound, as if she were trying to give herself justice through a small, pointless gesture. Mihai watched her in silence.

“The clock is broken,” she said, with a painful detachment.

“Clocks don’t break like that. Not without something happening.”

“Maybe the battery died, Mihai. Is that so hard to believe? It’s just an object.”

Ana sighed. In the kitchen, everything was in its place: the table in the middle, the chairs unevenly arranged around it, the window stained by last night’s rain that had washed the world clean. The light was cold, unchanged. And yet time—today—seemed to have slipped out of order.

With a heavy movement, Ana stood up, walked to the wall, and lifted the clock from its hook. The ritual began. She held it in her palms for a moment, with a strange attentiveness, as if it were something fragile and pure, yet burdened with guilt. She placed it on the coffee-stained table and searched for the battery in the cupboard that looked untouched for weeks.

The new battery was there, beside an old screwdriver, rust-colored. Ana held it between her fingers with almost maternal care, as if the metal might speak if she listened long enough.

“See?” she said, without looking at him. “Everything is where it should be now.”

“Things can be in their place and still not work.”

“Here you go again.” Ana closed her eyes for a moment. “Your words have this terrible habit of touching exactly the places I try not to look at. Why? Why do you always do this?”

“It’s not my words, Ana. It’s the things you avoid.”

“I’m not avoiding anything. I just can’t stand seeing them anymore,” she said, as she closed the back of the clock.

She turned it over. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the second hand began to move, hesitantly, like a child learning to walk on a floor worn thin by time. It made one full circle, then another. Ana inhaled deeply, as if surfacing from a dive held too long.

“See? The battery was the problem. It works now.”

The minute hand trembled. A brief, almost imperceptible vibration—and it jumped.

Before she could lift her eyes, a knot formed in her stomach and climbed into her throat, leaving her unable to speak.

“What time is it?” Mihai asked.

“Eight and—” Ana began automatically, then stopped.

The silence thickened, heavy as the air in a windowless room.

“Look again,” Mihai said, without taking his eyes off her.

She looked again. The numbers were clear, round, final—like stones on a grave she had not visited in a long time.

“4 p.m.,” Ana whispered. “That can’t be.”

It was too late to be morning. Time felt full, solid, certain of itself, while Ana felt herself slipping away.

“That’s impossible.”

“Exactly,” Mihai said.

The light in the kitchen remained unchanged—cold, even—as if time were merely a convention respected by space, not by time itself. The shadows had not moved, but Ana felt something quietly detach from her.

“This clock is old,” she said, almost to herself. “It must be defective.”

“Or maybe it works perfectly and is showing you a truth that arrived too early.”

“Please. Not today. Not today.”

“Why not today? Is today any different from yesterday or tomorrow?”

After a moment, Ana lifted her tear-filled eyes.

“You’re leaving today. Today.”

The word today fell between them like a heavy object dropped without warning. Mihai smiled faintly, but it was a smile that promised nothing—caught somewhere between resignation and something dangerously close to forgiveness.

“That’s exactly why. Today—”

Ana turned the clock face down. She didn’t want to see the time anymore. The metal struck the table with a dry, final sound, like a decision made too late to undo.

She grabbed her pack of cigarettes and pulled out one already half-smoked. She never finished them. Her movements were automatic, as if her body knew what to do when she no longer did. The smoke burned her throat before reaching her lungs. Today, smoking wasn’t pleasure—it was just enough to fill the space between two heartbeats.

“I don’t want to know what time it is.”

“Time doesn’t disappear if you turn the clock over.”

“Time doesn’t disappear,” Ana said softly. “People do.”

The word people slipped from her mouth like a mistake. The cigarette trembled between her fingers.

“You’re blaming yourself for nothing. This isn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” Ana said. “It is my fault. I thought time would wait for us—that it would forgive us if we hurried enough.”

“I have to leave,” Mihai said.

“It’s too early to leave. I’ll make you a cup of coffee. We’ll drink it, and then you can go.”

“For me, it’s not too early. It’s time.”

Ana looked toward the hallway. His jacket was still on the hook, untouched, like something forgotten in an old photograph. Nothing had been moved. Her eyes shifted to the door. It was closed. The keys lay on the table, exactly where they had been yesterday.

Everything was in its place. Too much in its place.

“And if you don’t come back in time?” she asked.

“In time—for what?”

“For—” Ana started, then stopped, as if the word were too heavy for the room.

Mihai looked at her longer than he should have. Her eyes, red from smoke, had taken on a dull sheen.

“For the hour that would have saved us,” he said quietly.

Ana crushed the cigarette between her fingers. The ash fell onto the table, beside the clock.

“Please. Stop. Don’t talk anymore,” she said, waving her hand. “Don’t rush away. At least don’t leave angry. Let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing left to say. Sometimes silence is better.”

“No,” Ana said too quickly. “We never talked about what mattered.”

“We did. Just not in time.”

She took a sharp drag from the cigarette.

“Then say it now. Don’t leave with things unsaid.”

“Some things no longer belong anywhere.”

“They still belong in me,” she said. “Still.”

She stood and took one step toward him—just one. The floor creaked softly, like a last breath before death.

“Do you remember when you said everything has a solution? That we don’t have to fix everything at once, but over time?”

“I remember. But there’s no time left.”

“Then where are you rushing to? Who says there’s no time—the clock?”

Mihai shrugged, almost innocently.

“No. Not the clock. Us.”

Ana laughed—a short, hysterical sound that didn’t ask for an answer.

“We never agreed about time. You were always ahead. I was always behind. Sometimes just a little. Sometimes more.”

“And yet, here we are. In the same morning.”

A cold shiver ran through her. She said nothing. Her eyes moved to the door.

“If you walk out that door now,” she whispered, “it will be hard to come back.”

Mihai didn’t move. He didn’t step toward her, but he didn’t step away either. He was there—but no longer for her.

“I know.”

“And you’re still leaving?”

“Yes.”

“It can’t be. It’s too quiet for a departure. Departures usually make noise—slamming doors, shattered glasses, air you can’t breathe. But now… everything is unchanged.”

“Not all departures are loud. Some happen without witnesses.”

Ana turned toward the window. Outside, the morning went on, indifferent. The street was the same: hurried people, cars slowing at the corner, children laughing, birds preparing to leave.

They still had time.

“Look,” she said. “Nothing is changing. Maybe you don’t have to leave. Maybe it just feels that way.”

“That’s the problem, Ana. It always just felt that way. We kept saying later. Later we’ll do this. Later we’ll do that. And meanwhile, time moved ahead of us.”

“Fine. You’re leaving. What’s left behind?”

Mihai looked at the clock lying face down on the table.

“The time,” he said. “The time stays.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Then take it with you. If you’re leaving, take the time too. Don’t leave anything here.”

Mihai didn’t answer.

Ana waited.

One second.

Then another.

“Mihai?”

There was no reply.

The air settled, exactly as it had been before. Everything was the same—the table, the chairs, the cold light.

Only Mihai was gone.

The door had not opened.

The keys were still on the table.

The jacket still hung on the hook.

The same hour.

The same morning.

7:25.

“You said you were leaving,” Ana whispered.

The clock kept ticking quietly, as if nothing had ever been missing.