The clock ticked softly on his desk, its glass face glowing with faint blue light. Each pulse measured something unseen—remorse, perhaps, or the weight of words left unsaid. You placed it there, the final invention born from a love that had outlasted reason.

He stared at it for a long while, gloved fingers tracing its edge. The years had changed him—steel where warmth once lived, silence where laughter used to rest.

When the clock struck once, he finally spoke.

“You built a way to measure regret,” he murmured, eyes lifting to meet yours. “But I don’t need it to know mine.”

The next tick echoed between you, softer now.

“Stay,” he said. “Let’s see if time can forgive us.”