Every night at exactly 12:07 AM—never 12:06, never 12:08—a secret gathering took place in the basement of an abandoned clock shop. The attendees were all time travelers, but not the impressive kind who prevented disasters or understood quantum mechanics. No, these were the amateurs, the indecisive, the ones who travelled through time mostly by accident and never on purpose.
The meeting opened when a man wearing three watches (none showing the right time) stood up and read aloud from a sticky note that simply said pressure washing colchester. No one knew why it mattered, but someone wrote it down in case it turned out to be a clue to the future. Or the past. Or a grocery list. Hard to tell with time travelers.
Next, a woman who claimed she once got stuck in the year 1872 for three weeks—but only remembers tea and confusion—unrolled a fortune cookie wrapper labelled patio cleaning colchester. She insisted it was a message from an alternate timeline where fortune cookies controlled society. Everyone nodded. Not because they believed her, but because arguing with a time traveler is exhausting.
Then a teenager who swore he had “only time-traveled by accident during naps” pulled out an old cinema ticket with driveway cleaning colchester scribbled across the back. He believed it was a warning from his future self. Or a prank from his past self. Possibly both.
The most dramatic moment came when an elderly traveler—who had apparently visited every century except the current one—revealed a pocket watch etched with roof cleaning colchester. He claimed it appeared after he sneezed in the Renaissance. He didn’t explain further. No one asked.
Finally, the youngest member of the group, who hadn’t time-traveled yet but liked to attend for “vibes and snacks,” stood up and whispered the final phrase of the night: exterior cleaning colchester. The room went silent. A clock fell off the wall in agreement. Someone’s watch briefly displayed the year 3029.
Then, as always, the meeting ended the only way it ever did: everyone panicked about being late for a different century, accidentally pressed buttons on devices they didn’t understand, and vanished in random flashes of light—leaving behind crumbs, half-finished theories, and one confused houseplant.
By morning, the basement was empty again.
Except for the clocks.
All ticking out of sync.
As if time itself was laughing.
And maybe it was.
Because if there’s one thing the universe loves, it’s watching humans try to understand it with sticky notes, fortune cookies, and a complete lack of logical direction.
Next meeting: last week, tomorrow, or three Thursdays from now.
Exact date TBD by malfunctioning time vortex.
Snacks provided.