The dawn of September 21st brought with it an ominous tranquility. The sky displayed a strange orange-red hue, like burning flames, while the sea remained unnaturally calm without a single ripple, as if nature were gathering energy for the impending storm.
We had spent the entire night studying "Joseph's" device, successfully installing it into Jack's pocket watch. In the morning, as we sat exhausted in the lighthouse kitchen nursing cups of coffee, I suddenly remembered a key figure we had overlooked.
"Owen Blake," I said softly, "the antique shop owner. When he first met me, he behaved as if he'd been expecting my arrival. He mentioned that should I encounter any 'unusual circumstances', he might be able to help."
Jack furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "Owen has always shown peculiar interest in the lighthouse and the Howard family. The townsfolk think he's merely an antique enthusiast, but I've always sensed he knows far more than he lets on."
"We should go and see him," I said firmly. "There are still many hours until 5:47 this afternoon. Perhaps he can provide the information we're still missing."
Jack nodded in agreement, quickly rising to his feet. "I'll ready the trap."
An hour later, we arrived at the main street of Fog Point. Despite the morning hour, the street was eerily quiet with hardly any pedestrians about. The wind began gradually strengthening, rattling the shop signs with haunting creaks.
"Time Collections" antique shop stood at the end of the street, a Victorian-style two-storey building with windows crammed with various antiques and collectibles. The wind chimes on the door tinkled crisply as we entered, but the shop appeared empty.
"Owen?" Jack called out, his voice echoing through the space crowded with antiquities.
No response came. We ventured further into the shop, glancing about. The antique shop was dimly lit, the air heavy with the musty scent of old books and polished wooden furniture. Various clocks ticked away on the wall, each with a different cadence, creating a curious symphony of time.
"Seems he's not here," I said, disappointment evident in my voice.
Just as we were about to leave, the back door of the shop swung open, and Owen Blake walked in. He didn't appear at all surprised to see us, as if he had long anticipated our visit.
"Mr Howard, Miss Morrison," he said calmly, his tone suggesting he knew far more than he should, "I've been expecting you."
"You knew we would come?" I asked, feeling a wave of unease wash over me.
Owen smiled, a smile harbouring too many secrets. "Today is September 21st, isn't it? The crucial day of the hundred-year cycle. The lighthouse keeper and the time traveller always seek answers on this day."
Jack stepped forward. "You know about the time rift and the hundred-year cycle?"
"I've lived longer than most, seen more," Owen replied enigmatically, walking behind the counter. "Follow me, there's something you should see."
We followed him through a concealed door to a small private office. The walls were adorned with vintage photographs of the lighthouse, from the earliest construction images in 1825 to recent ones from the 1920s, forming a complete timeline. Most striking was a group photograph from 1826, showing Arthur Howard standing in front of the lighthouse, alongside "Joseph"—a man who looked identical to Jack.
"You've been studying the lighthouse and the Howard family," Jack said quietly, more a confirmation than a question.
Owen nodded, walking toward an ancient safe. "Not merely studying. I am a watcher, a witness, sometimes a helper. Every cycle, every critical day, I've been here, waiting, observing."
"Who are you?" I asked directly, sensing he was far more mysterious and complex than a mere antique dealer.
Owen didn't answer immediately but opened the safe and extracted a small wooden box. "Some answers reveal themselves naturally with time," he finally said. "For now, what's more important is this."
He opened the wooden box, and Jack and I both gasped. Inside lay a third pocket watch, almost identical to ours, except for slightly different engravings on its surface, giving it a more ancient appearance.
"The third pocket watch," Owen explained, "the original one, created when the first time rift opened. It belongs neither to the past nor to the future, but is a product of time itself."
"What does it do?" Jack asked, carefully lifting it to feel its weight.
"Balance," Owen answered simply. "Two pocket watches can open the rift, but the third can stabilise it. Without it, the time rift becomes increasingly unstable each time it opens, potentially leading to catastrophic consequences."
I recalled the vision in the underwater cave—two figures enveloped in blue light, then only one remaining. "That's why someone always gets left behind," I said softly. "One person must use the third watch to stabilise the rift and cannot cross over."
Owen's gaze sharpened. "You've seen the visions."
I nodded, describing my experience in the underwater cave. After listening, Owen heaved a deep sigh.
"Each cycle has similarities, but also differences. Arthur and 'Joseph' faced this choice, as did your grandmother Emily. Now, it's your turn."
"My grandmother?" I asked in surprise. "She knew about the third pocket watch?"
"She not only knew, she used it in the last cycle," Owen walked to a photograph on the wall, pointing to the date September 22, 1926. "That's why she could return to the future but was left here for two weeks. She needed time to stabilise the rift, to ensure it closed safely."
This information stunned me. Grandmother had never mentioned details of this experience, only leaving hints and the pocket watch on her deathbed. Now I understood why—she knew I would repeat her journey, facing the same choice.
"So this afternoon," Jack said slowly, "when the time rift reaches its peak, we need to activate all three pocket watches simultaneously?"
"Correct," Owen confirmed, "but this creates a dilemma—three watches, two people. One person can hold two, but that means..."
"One person must stay behind," I completed his sentence, my heart sinking.
Owen nodded gravely. "Whoever chooses to stay will bear a great responsibility. They must ensure the rift closes stably, preventing a catastrophic merger of the two timelines. It's not an easy task, requiring both skill and courage."
"How long?" Jack asked, his voice low. "How long would the person who stays need to remain?"
"It depends on the state of the rift," Owen answered. "It could be days, it could be weeks. In your grandmother's case, it was two weeks and three days. But crucially, the person who stays can ultimately choose their own destination—return to their original time, or... choose a new beginning."
Jack and I exchanged a glance, both understanding what this meant. This wasn't just about who crosses over and who stays behind, but a deeper choice about which era each of us ultimately wishes to belong to.
Owen handed us the third pocket watch, saying solemnly: "5:47, at the top of the lighthouse. Three watches, two people, one choice. Whatever you decide, remember—time is never a fixed line, but a network full of possibilities. Each choice creates new paths, new futures."
As we left the antique shop, the sky had already visibly darkened, with thunderclouds gathering from the sea. The wind grew stronger, and trees along the street began to sway violently. The storm was approaching, just as the historical records had described.
"We only have a few hours left," Jack said, gazing at the distant lighthouse, his voice containing both determination and disquiet. "We need to make final preparations."
I nodded, clutching the third pocket watch tightly in my hand, feeling its ancient yet steady heartbeat. This discovery gave us both hope and a new dilemma—three pocket watches meant we had the ability to control the crossing, but it also meant a difficult choice: who would cross over, and who would stay behind? More importantly, in which era did we ultimately hope to live together?
With these weighty questions, we set off back to the lighthouse, heading toward our impending moment of destiny. The occasional lightning flashing through the clouds seemed like warnings and summons from time itself.