Time Machine: 60 Seconds of Terror

I still don’t know how it got on my desk this morning—no note, no warning, just sitting there, small and silver with the neat words “Time Machine — 60 seconds” scratched so deep it felt like they’d been waiting for me. Something about the air felt a little off, even with the sun streaming through the blinds. I didn’t really believe it, honestly thought someone was messing with me, but my finger pressed the button anyway.

Turns out you can rewind time a minute, and yeah, it works. I watched coffee flow right back into the cup, text messages unsent, buses magically reappear. All those tiny regrets, suddenly gone. I started leaning on it for everything—dumb mistakes, awkward moments, things unsaid. Felt like I was cheating at life, sixty seconds at a time.

But I started noticing things. With every press, the cold crept in, shadows stretched and twisted; soon my own breath was visible inside. The clock on the wall ticked slower, sometimes even back—sometimes it just stopped altogether. And every so often, I’d catch weird whispers—my own voice, telling me “Stop using it.” One night, the silence in my apartment felt so heavy, I swear something else was breathing with me.

Tonight, after one last rewind, I went to the bathroom, only half-aware of the pulse coming from my hand. When I looked in the mirror, my reflection moved just a hair out of sync—a fraction behind, eyes too dark, smile too wide. And somehow, it smiled first.

If you ever find something that promises to undo your worst moments, don’t trust it. Some time, you won’t get yourself back.