The Hourglass

Jude discovered the hourglass on a rainy afternoon, tucked behind a stack of moth-eaten books in his grandfather’s attic. It was delicate, its glass smooth and cool to the touch, cradled in a brass frame etched with strange symbols. Inside, silver sand sparkled like stardust. A brittle tag dangled from its neck: "Turn once to go back an hour—use wisely."

He chuckled at the ridiculous thought but thought it looked cool, so he brought it to school to show his best friend, Noah. After flunking a brutal chemistry test, Jude turned the hourglass out of pure frustration and wishful thinking. The sand shifted, shimmered—and suddenly, he was back in his seat, the test untouched before him. This time, he knew every answer. The rush of his newfound control of time was intoxicating.

Soon, he was spinning time like a DJ scratches vinyl. A flubbed joke? Rewind. A wrong answer in class? Rewind. A spilled smoothie on his crush’s shoes? Rewind. Life became a perfectly edited reel where every second chance played in his favor.

But slowly, cracks began to show. He couldn’t remember why he’d argued with Noah last week—only that they weren’t speaking now. His mom hugged him tightly one night, thanking him for something he couldn’t recall. And in his locker, a note from someone named Lily: “Thank you for helping me with my presentation.” But he had no memory of presenting anything or Lily.

Each hour he stole back left something behind. Names blurred. Laughter became echoes. Feelings dulled. Jude told himself he was just tired and stressed—but in truth, he was unraveling.

One night, after a shouting match with his dad over something he couldn’t remember, Jude stormed to his room and yanked open the drawer where he kept the hourglass. His hand froze mid-reach. What were they even fighting about? He searched his mind and found nothing but static.

That silence terrified him more than any mistake ever had.

The next morning, instead of turning time, Jude made eggs and sat quietly across from his dad. “I don’t know what happened last night,” he said, voice rough, “but I’m sorry.” His dad blinked, surprised. And slowly, they began to talk—not just about last night, but about everything. It was awkward, raw, imperfect.

But it was real.

That evening, Jude wrapped the hourglass in an old flannel shirt and climbed back into the attic. He nestled it behind the dusty books it had once hidden beneath, pressing it deep into the shadows. Not because he hated it—because he finally understood it.

Perfection was tempting, but it came at a cost. Some moments were meant to hurt, to teach, to scar. And some memories—even the painful ones—were worth keeping.

As he descended the attic steps, the sun broke through the clouds, casting gold on the hallway floor. For the first time in his life, Jude was ready to embrace the day—challenges and all.