Uncle Shom Part 1 File

Uncle Shom finally looked at me. His eyes were wet.

But the pocket watch remained. I picked it up. The hands were still moving—forward this time. And on the inside of the lid, where there had once been an engraving of a compass rose, there was now a new inscription: “Gone to fix the past. Be back before you grow up. — Shom” That was thirty-seven years ago. I’m forty-seven now. Uncle Shom never returned. My father claimed the whole thing was a stress-induced hallucination. My mother refused to discuss the “spare room.” But the pocket watch is in my desk drawer as I write this. And every now and then, usually at 2:47 AM, I hear a faint knocking. Uncle Shom Part 1

Stay tuned for “Uncle Shom Part 2: The Letters from the In-Between.” Uncle Shom finally looked at me