It was a quiet evening when Emily Abbott first noticed the hourglass. She had been cataloging artifacts at the Bellweather Museum for over five years, but this particular piece had never caught her attention before. Its sleek, antique brass frame was nothing remarkable, yet there was something oddly captivating about the sand within it. It shimmered, almost glowing, as if the grains were imbued with their own light.
She brushed off the feeling and continued her work. The museum was closing soon, and she still had several items to log before heading home. But as she turned back to her list, a faint creaking noise drew her attention again.
The hourglass had moved.
Not by much—just a small shift to the left, but enough to send a chill down Emily’s spine. She hadn’t touched it, and there was no draft in the room that could explain the movement. Frowning, she approached the artifact and leaned closer. She reached out tentatively and touched the cool brass frame, but nothing seemed unusual. Perhaps she was just tired after a long day.
Later that night, Emily couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. As she lay in bed, the image of the hourglass kept flashing in her mind—the way the sand seemed alive, the unexplainable movement. Unable to sleep, she decided to do some research on it.
The museum’s records were sparse. The hourglass had been donated decades ago by a family whose name was no longer legible in the archives. The only note attached to the piece was a cryptic warning: “Time passes, but beware of what it takes.” There was no explanation of its origins or purpose.
Curiosity gnawed at Emily. The following morning, she returned to the museum early, determined to solve the mystery. She found herself staring at the hourglass again. It was untouched from the night before, yet something felt different. The sand inside had seemed to shift as if more time had passed than it should have.
Emily carefully picked it up, turning it in her hands. As she examined the glass more closely, she noticed faint etchings on its surface—symbols she had never seen before, symbols that seemed to change if she looked away and back again. Her heart raced, and she felt an overwhelming urge to flip the hourglass over.
Her hand trembled as she did so, and as the first few grains of sand tumbled from one end to the other, she felt the room around her grow unnaturally cold. The lights dimmed momentarily, flickering as if some unseen force had drained their power.
And then, the room shifted.
One moment, Emily was standing in the museum. The next, she was somewhere else—somewhere dark and unfamiliar. She was no longer in the clean, quiet museum; she was standing in the center of an old, dilapidated house. Dust floated in the air, and the faint smell of decay filled her nostrils. Her pulse quickened, and she realized the hourglass was no longer in her hands.
The house was eerily quiet, save for the sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the distance. She turned slowly, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Faded portraits hung crookedly on the walls, their painted eyes watching her every move. She felt the weight of time in the air, thick and oppressive, as if this place had been forgotten for centuries.
Panic began to creep in. Where was she? How had she gotten here?
Suddenly, a low whisper echoed from the far corner of the room. Emily’s breath caught in her throat as she strained to hear it. The voice was faint, barely more than a murmur, but it sounded familiar. It was calling her name.
“Emily…”
She froze. The voice was coming from behind an old, tattered curtain. Her legs felt like lead as she moved toward it, the ticking of the distant clock growing louder with every step. Slowly, she pulled back the curtain.
There, standing in front of her, was a mirror—but it wasn’t her reflection staring back at her.
It was a woman, her face gaunt and hollow, her eyes wide with fear. She looked like Emily, but older—much older. The woman’s hand reached out from the other side of the glass, pressing against it, as if trying to escape. Her lips moved, forming the words Emily had heard moments ago.
“Time… beware of what it takes.”
Emily stumbled backward, her heart pounding in her chest. The mirror flickered, the image of the older version of herself vanishing as the sound of the ticking clock grew deafening.
With a sudden jolt, she was back in the museum. The lights were bright again, the room warm. The hourglass was on the table where she had left it, the sand still falling silently within it.
Her hands shook as she backed away from the table, her mind racing to comprehend what had just happened. Was it real? A hallucination? The cryptic warning replayed in her mind: Time passes, but beware of what it takes.
It took a moment for her to notice. The sand inside the hourglass—there was less of it now.
And Emily, looking into the reflection of a nearby glass case, saw something that made her blood run cold. Her hair, which had been dark brown that morning, was streaked with silver.
The hourglass hadn’t just moved. It had taken something. And now, it wanted more.
