Chương 172: Chapter 172
The rain hammered against the window, a steady rhythm of drops that blurred the world outside. Everything had become indistinct over time, as though the sky had forgotten how to be clear. Jake sat in his armchair, an old, worn thing that had long lost any comfort it might have once provided. His hands trembled as he held the glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swaying with every unsteady movement. It had been days since he'd eaten, weeks since he'd felt anything other than the cold numbness creeping up his spine. Time, that invisible thing that controlled his every move, had begun to feel like a cage.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. His life hadn't been perfect, but it had been his. He had choices once, hope, even a dream or two. Now, there was just time slipping away—faster, every moment. The diagnosis had been the trigger, though he'd known something was wrong long before they confirmed it. Cancer. Stage four. Too far gone for any treatment, too far gone to even hope for a miracle. His doctors had offered their condolences, their empathy, but it all felt so hollow.
He hadn't told his family. It wasn't that he wanted to protect them; it was just easier to leave them with the illusion that everything was fine. It would be better that way. He hadn't felt his heart beat the same since the day they gave him that number.
As the rain continued its assault on the world outside, Jake heard a sound. It was soft at first, a tapping. Maybe a branch scraping against the window. He turned his head slowly, but the rain didn't stop. It was the door. The tapping was coming from the door.
Jake's eyes narrowed, disbelief washing over him. The storm outside was too loud for anyone to be here. His legs stiffened, unwilling to move, but a strange force seemed to urge him forward. He stood up with a grunt, his bones cracking like dry wood. The house was empty, save for the clutter of things he'd forgotten to throw out. Old magazines, unopened bills, family photos that never got looked at. The hallway stretched before him, too long for a house this size. He could hear the sound again—the tapping. Persistent.
When he reached the door, he paused. The wood was familiar, the brass handle smooth under his fingertips. The tapping was louder now, as though something—or someone—was trying to get in. He hesitated for just a second, then turned the handle.
It was there.
At first, Jake thought it was a man. Tall, too tall, the body thin and long in a way that didn't seem natural. He could make out no features, just the silhouette, its edges slightly distorted as though it wasn't quite part of the world.
Then, it spoke.
"You're nearing the end."
Jake's breath caught in his throat, the words like ice. He stepped back, heart hammering in his chest. He didn't speak; he couldn't. There was something in the voice, something too cold, too distant.
"I offer you something," the thing said. Its voice wasn't human, but it was familiar, too—like the ticking of a clock, or the hum of machinery just under the surface of reality.
Jake shook his head, his voice hoarse. "What... what do you want?"
It didn't answer. Instead, a strange metallic sound filled the air, a sound that seemed to pierce through the stillness. From within its chest—or somewhere near its neck—Jake saw a clock. A large, old-fashioned thing, the hands moving too fast, faster than they should.
"You want more time," it said, though there was no question in its tone. It knew.
Jake took a step back, heart pounding. "No," he muttered, shaking his head. "I don't need anything from you."
The thing didn't move. It just stood there, as though waiting for him to reconsider.
"I offer you time," it said, its voice still cold, still detached from the world. "The price is simple. Your memories. One for one."
Jake felt a wave of confusion wash over him. His memories? What kind of sick joke was this? He took another step back. "I don't understand. What does that mean?"
The clock's hands ticked louder, the sound like the ticking of a bomb. "Each memory you give me, you gain another day. Another moment. I can extend your life."
Jake's mind raced. His thoughts were scattered. He had nothing left. His body was already dying. What harm could it do to give away a few memories? The pain was too great already. He wanted it all to stop.
"What's the catch?" Jake's voice was thin, and for a moment, he wished it weren't. He wanted to sound strong.
"There is no catch," the thing replied. "Except... once you've given all you can, there will be nothing left."
Jake felt his breath quicken. "Nothing left?"
"Your life will be gone. Your past, your future, all of it. You will be nothing but an empty vessel."
The silence between them stretched long, so long that Jake thought his heart would stop before he could make a choice. The thing before him stood still, its form dark, shifting in a way that defied the rules of the world. It was wrong, too wrong, but in that moment, Jake couldn't bring himself to care. He was dying anyway.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. "Fine," he whispered. "I'll take the time."
The thing stepped forward, and as it did, Jake could feel an icy coldness settling over him. His body shivered involuntarily, but it wasn't from the cold. Something deeper, something darker, was creeping into his very soul. The clock's hands ticked louder. With a single motion, the thing reached forward and touched his forehead.
Jake gasped as a flood of images, memories, rushed into his mind. There were faces—his mother, his childhood friends, people he'd loved, and people who had passed from his life long ago. But each memory felt distant, like he was watching someone else's life. He saw a dog he'd had as a child, and the sound of laughter in a park on a summer day, the warmth of a lover's touch. Each moment faded faster than it arrived. His fingers twitched, the remnants of these memories slipping through his hands like sand.
"You are giving them," the entity said, and its voice was just a soft whisper, barely audible. "But you still have more. More to give."
Jake couldn't stop it. He tried, but the memories kept flowing out of him, disappearing into the void where the thing stood. There was nothing he could do. Each piece of his life was taken, leaving behind a hollow emptiness that made his skin crawl.
It kept going.
The memories became more recent—the day he learned he was sick, the first time he felt the ache in his chest, the way his hands shook when he was told it was too late. The anger. The rage. Each emotion bled away, leaving behind only the hollow pit where they had once lived.
And still, it wasn't enough.
"I need more," the thing said, its voice colder now, sharper.
Jake couldn't remember why he had agreed to this in the first place. His mind was a blur, the pieces of his life scattered like broken glass. His last memory, the one he hadn't wanted to part with, was slipping away, too.
His wife. Their wedding. The love they'd shared. The hope. Gone.
The thing was right. There was nothing left.
His body shook as the final pieces of his life were ripped away. He could feel the last sliver of himself being devoured. He had traded it all for time—time that meant nothing when there was nothing left to live for.
The clock's hands finally stopped.
Jake stood there, alone in the dark, empty house, his life behind him, a shell of a man. He had no past, no future, no memories. Time had come, and in the end, it had taken everything.
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